


Lord Hamish: Defender of 221B Baker Street

by darkhearted243



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Cat, Friendship, Humor, Kitten, Lord Hamish, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2017-12-12 04:51:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 22,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkhearted243/pseuds/darkhearted243
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Much to Sherlock's surprise, John brings home a kitten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John sat on the couch and examined the sleeping kitten on his lap. He was still unsure about how Sherlock would take to the animal, but John had been unable to restrain himself when the opportunity arose.

About a month ago, one of John's coworkers, a nurse at the clinic named Petal, announced that her cat had kittens and was trying to find homes for them. When the subject was first mentioned, John had no intention of bringing home one of the kittens. He was sure that Sherlock would be opposed to the idea of having a pet of any form. At least a pet that he would not be allowed to perform experiments on.

Regardless, he had allowed himself to be roped into going by Petal's house during lunch to look at the kittens along with a few other nurses and doctors that John had befriended over the past few months that John had been working at the clinic again. Petal showed them into her living room, where three of the four kittens were huddled near the mother, but the one sitting off to the side caught John's eye.

John could swear that the kitten was glaring at the display of affection the other kittens were showing. He took a step toward the kitten, and the kitten looked up at him. It had sharp green eyes; something about them made John think of Sherlock. John suddenly felt as if the kitten could see through him, and he was not sure if it was the kitten itself or the fact that he had just formed a correlation to Sherlock. The kitten suddenly walked up to John and rubbed its tiny body against John's leg, trying its hardest to wrap itself in a figure eight around his ankles.

Before John registered what he was doing, he had told Petal that he wanted the kitten that had started trying to climb up his leg. The kitten was unable to leave its mother for another four weeks, so John had left Petals house with every intention of warming Sherlock up to the idea. That did not happen. Sherlock had come home that evening in a bad mood because the case that he had thought would be promising had proven to be a simple lovers quarrel gone bad. The next day John had tried to mention it to Sherlock, but he was so absorbed in an experiment that he was not listening to anything John was saying. He did not even respond when John claimed that he was going to move to Italy and join a nudist colony. After that, John kept telling himself that he had plenty of time to mention it later.

Now John was sitting in his living room, with the kitten on his lap, and Sherlock still had no idea. John felt slightly guilty, but at the same time he was relieved that he did not mention it to Sherlock, because he was sure Sherlock would have said some variant of "no way in hell" and then John would have told Petal that he would be unable to take the kitten. This way, there was a good chance that he could convince Sherlock to let him keep the kitten. Saying that he had already brought it home, he was a grown man and he lived here too, things like that.

John looked down at the kitten again and ran a hand over his back. He had never realized how cat-like Sherlock was. Sherlock was slender and lean, made up of lines and sharp angles yet was able to move with grace, agility, and fluidity. He was clever (obviously) and surreptitious. He had sudden bouts of manic energy and long spells of lethargy, laying in one spot for hours on end without moving in the slightest. Sometimes, Sherlock craved attention, occasionally reverting to childish behaviors to get it, and other times he wanted nothing to do with anyone for any reason. Sherlock might as well be the personification of a cat.

John was brought out of his musings by the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs. He looked up as the door to the flat was thrown open and Sherlock swooped into the room, pausing mid-stride when he realized that John was not quite alone. He stood there with a perfectly blank expression, his confusion only given away by the ever-so-slight tilt of his head that John almost did not catch. After a minute, Sherlock scowled at the kitten, "John, what is that creature doing here."

John rolled his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips, "It's a kitten Sherlock, not a monster. I brought it home. I like him."

Sherlock looked a bit lost, he scrunched up his face then let a mask of apathy cover his features, "I can't imagine why. Are you really that easily entertained?" John refused to dignify that with an answer.

"We don't have time to take care of a cat John, get rid of it." With that, Sherlock made his way into the kitchen to check on his current experiment. John sighed audibly and nudged the kitten off of his lap so that he could follow the consulting detective. He leaned against the doorway and watched Sherlock transfer a blue liquid into several test tubes.

"Sherlock, I don't want to get rid of the kitten. If I can manage to keep you alive I think I can take care of a cat. Much less stress and maintenance." Sherlock pointedly ignored John's existence. John pinched the bridge of his nose and let out his breath in a huff, and then turned back to the living room. It had been a long shot anyways.

"Fine, I'm going out for a bit. Try not to kill the monster before I get back. And no experiments on him!" A moment later Sherlock heard the door to the flat open and close, followed by John's steps out of the building. Sherlock did not understand why John was so upset, there was no way he could have had the cat for more then a couple hours since he had barley got off work, so he could not possibly be emotionally attached to it already. Sherlock made another face, and then turned his attention completely towards his experiment.

Sherlock was completely absorbed in his experiment, which was promising fascinating results when he suddenly heard a light thump on the table. He looked up to see a set of dark green eyes looking at him. Examining him. Sherlock stood up to his full height, and the kitten sat up straight in response. The kitten looked at Sherlock's equipment, then back up at Sherlock almost expectantly. As if he wanted Sherlock to explain what he was doing. Feeling a bit silly, Sherlock asked the kitten, "Do you want me to explain what I'm doing?"

The kitten's ears perked up at the sound of Sherlock's voice, and Sherlock frowned. After a moment, he proceeded to explain exactly what his experiment was, how he conducted it, and what the results meant. The kitten seemed to pay rapt attention to everything that Sherlock said. The kitten reminded him of John, surprisingly intelligent and for some reason interested in Sherlock. Even the kittens coloring was John-like. He had an expanse of white over his chest that trailed down his stomach and covered the insides of his legs; the rest of him was covered in a warm brown with black stripes, except for one large splotch of black surrounding his right eye and ear, making his green eyes even more obvious. The kitten looked soft and gentle and comforting, but for some reason the black spot on his face made it seem like he could be threatening if he wanted to. Just like John.

Of course John would bring home what was probably the one cat Sherlock could stand.

"I suppose I should give you a name." The kitten lay down and rested his head on his pawns, still looking at Sherlock. Sherlock went over a few names in his head; he briefly contemplated naming the cat John. Mini-John perhaps. Sherlock then remembered something that John had mentioned, "Hamish?"

The kitten sat up at that, "You like that name? Hamish?" The kitten took a step closer to Sherlock and sat up straight. Suddenly, he seemed almost regal, "Lord Hamish." Sherlock smiled, that was the perfect name. Lord Hamish seemed to agree.

John returned to find Sherlock sitting at the table with the kitten perched on his lap while he recorded notes on his last experiment in his notebook. John raised an eyebrow at the sight and walked up next to Sherlock, "Well, Molly said that she would love to take the kitten off our hands."

Sherlock placed a protective hand on the kitten, "No. Lord Hamish is my cat. She can't have him."

John smiled and was about to make tea, when he realized what Sherlock had named the kitten and burst into laughter, "Lord Hamish? Seriously?" he asked between breaths. Sherlock looked slightly offended at first, but shortly was joining in on John's laughter. After they regained their composure, Sherlock replied while trying and failing to keep his face completely neutral, "Well, he reminded me so much of you I almost named him John, but then you wouldn't know which one of you I was talking to."

John snorted and shook his head, "You really are something else Sherlock."

Sherlock became slightly defensive, "The cat likes the name."

John bit his lip to prevent himself from laughing again, "I'm sure he does. And now we have "Lord Hamish, Defender of 221B Baker Street" here to hold down the fort while we are out chasing criminals through London at all hours of the night."

John and Sherlock fell into another laughing fit, and then John pulled out his mobile, "Well, I guess I better tell Molly the bad news."


	2. The Three O'Clock Bath

Greg Lestrade was sitting in the living room of 221B Baker Street waiting for John to get off the phone so they could head to the pub when he first saw Lord Hamish. The kitten walked in from the kitchen and skirted around the edge of the room until he was at the far end of the couch. The kitten seemed wary of him, so Greg leaned forward and offered his hand out, palm up, for the kitten. After a moment the kitten slowly approached Greg and allowed Greg to pet him. Soon after the kitten was on Greg’s lap and rubbing against him affectionately. He could not help but wonder what on earth John and Sherlock were doing with a cat. 

Sherlock barged into the flat covered from head to foot in soot. His hair was sticking out haphazard and filthy, his scarf was hanging out of his coat pocket, and he had a rather large bruise forming on his jaw. The man looked like a right mess. 

“Sherlock, what the hell happened to you?”

Sherlock shrugged off his coat and hung it up before turning his attention to Greg. When he did, he frowned and walked forward to collect Lord Hamish off of Greg’s lap, “What are you doing here Lestrade?” 

“John and I are going to the pub tonight, he got a call that he couldn’t ignore so I’m waiting for him to finish up. What is with the cat? And again, what the bloody hell happened to you?”

Sherlock held the kitten to his chest, effectively coating the kitten in soot as well, as he sat in his usual armchair, “I was looking for a piece of evidence in the ruins of a house that burned down last night. Shortly after I retrieved the item the husband attacked me. It was a case for Detective Inspector Dimmock, who is almost as incompetent as Anderson. I resent you introducing me to him. John brought home Lord Hamish a week ago.”

Just as Greg was about to ask why John decided to get a cat, John walked into the room as he slipped his mobile in his pocket. He looked up and caught sight of Sherlock, “Sherlock! What did you do now?” Without waiting for an answer John immediately walked over and gently placed his hand on Sherlock’s jaw, both men choosing to ignore the intimacy of the action, and turned his head from side to side to examine the damage while Sherlock repeated what he has just told Greg. John sighed, “Do you have any more bruises or cuts? Are you hurt anywhere other then your face?” Sherlock shook his head. 

“You should take a shower Sherlock, you’re a complete mess. Greg and I are going down to the pub for a pint, shouldn’t be gone for more then a few hours.” Sherlock shot John his “I-can’t-believe-you’re-leaving-without-me-because-I’m-bored” look and John just shook his head slightly, “Don’t look at me like that. Hamish can keep you entertained.”

“Lord Hamish.” Sherlock sneered and then stood up, causing Lord Hamish to jump to the floor. Lord Hamish crawled back onto Greg’s lap, and Sherlock glared at the kitten as if it had just performed the ultimate act of betrayal before storming to his room and slamming the door.

John stared after Sherlock with a look of fond disbelief, like a parent who was slightly amused at his child’s ridiculous behavior. Greg wondered if John remembered that he was in the room, and cleared his throat. John snapped his attention back to Greg, and then grabbed his coat, “Well, let’s get going.”

***

“So, what made you decide to get a cat?” John and Greg had just seated themselves with their drinks. John leaned back against his seat and shook his head.

“I got dragged along with some friends from work to look at this litter of kittens. I hadn’t planned on taking one home at the time. But there was this one kitten sitting apart from the group, and I swear he was glaring at the other kittens as if he couldn’t stand them. Then he came over and tried to climb up my leg, how could I not take him home?”

“So, you had to bring the kitten home because he tried to climb your leg? Not because he, I don’t know, reminded you of a certain anti-social git?”

John was saved from having to respond by his message alert going off. He pulled out his mobile and looked at the new text message:

John, Lord Hamish presented me with a dead mouse. Is this supposed to be a warning? Does this mean that Lord Hamish has a murderous streak? SH

John laughed so hard that his eyes watered. Greg looked at him questionably while trying not to laugh at John’s laughter. After John’s third attempt to explain what was so funny he just shoved his mobile across the table for Greg to read. John had started to compose himself when Greg broke into laughter, sending him into another tangent. As the two men calmed down John took back his mobile and responded to Sherlock.

Sherlock, the dead mouse is a present. Not a threat. That’s what cats do, they bring dead mice and birds and other dead things to their owners. Sorry to disappoint, but Lord Hamish isn’t going to try and kill one of us. 

John stowed his mobile once again and returned to his attention to his present company. Greg smirked at John over his beer, “So, John, when are you two going to stop dancing around and just shag each other senseless?” John chocked on his drink and looked at Greg in disbelief, “What? Greg, how many times do I have to repeat myself? I’m not gay, and even if I was Sherlock wouldn’t be interested.”

Greg offered John a look of exasperation, “Oh John, you can be so blind sometimes.” Instead of responding John changed the subject to the latest rugby match. 

When John arrived home two and a half hours later he found Sherlock curled up on the couch with Lord Hamish draped over his hip. For the briefest moment, John wanted to climb onto the couch with Sherlock and wrap himself in the other mans warmth. He shook the thought out of his head as he climbed the stairs and crawled into his own bed, feeling strangely as if he had lost something he never really had. 

John was pulled out of his restless slumber by hissing and angry meowing, followed by a loud thump. He rolled over and looked at the clock, 03:00. There was more hissing then a muffled, “John!”

At that John was halfway down the stairs before he realized that he had gotten out of bed, gun in hand. He rolled his eyes at himself and tucked the gun away into his pocket, then opened the bathroom door. 

Sherlock was seated on the floor under the sink, his front soaking wet with scratch marks coating his arms, a few even on his face. Lord Hamish’s back half was sopping wet, and he was perched on the back of the toilet and watching Sherlock sharply. The bath was filled about a fourth of the way with water. There was a bar of soap and a washcloth abandoned on the floor next to the door. 

“Sherlock… did you try to give the cat a bath? At three in the morning?”

Sherlock looked up at Lord Hamish, then at John with the air of a child who knew that they just got caught doing something bad, but was unsure why it was bad, “Yes.” John pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a sigh, then made his way over to drain the bathtub. While it was draining he pulled a clean hand towel out of the drawer and tried to get Lord Hamish as dry as possible, wrapping him in the towel and holding him to his chest, “Sherlock, why are you trying to give Hamish a bath?”

“Lord Hamish, John. I couldn’t sleep and I realized that Lord Hamish was still dirty from when I held him earlier. So, since it was my fault that he was dirty I should clean him. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me, that I need to clean up after my messes?” 

John laughed. He had been laughing a lot lately. It was just strange to see Sherlock so… childlike. Sherlock usually knew everything about, well, everything. It certainly seemed that way most of the time. How to take care of a cat must have been one of those things he deleted, like the solar system, if he had ever learned it. Sherlock frowned and looked away from John, feeling embarrassed and a little bit hurt that John was laughing at him. 

John saw the movement and realized that his laughing was hurting Sherlock’s feelings, “Oh Sherlock, its just bizarre, me knowing something that you don’t. Cats don’t like baths, and unless they manage to get themselves covered in oil or something toxic, you just let them clean themselves.” 

Sherlock glared at John, “It was never important before.”

“I’m a little surprised you didn’t do extensive research once you decided you wanted to keep Hamish.” 

Sherlock scowled at John, “Lord Hamish.” 

John smiled and motioned for Sherlock to move so that he could get to the first aid kit under the sink. He knelt in front of Sherlock and checked all of his cuts, placing Band-Aids over the few that were fairly deep and bleeding, “I do appreciate the fact that you tried to clean up after your own mess for once. Is this something I can look forward to more often?”

Sherlock looked at John sideways, “I highly doubt it. Are you done yet? That is really unnecessary.” Sherlock would never admit it, but he loved it when John was taking care of him, focusing all of his attention on Sherlock completely. He told himself that it was simply because he hated hospital so it was convenient to be able to avoid those almost entirely. It was just one of the perks of having a doctor as a flat mate. 

Once John had finished, Sherlock retreated to his room and waited for John to return to bed. Exactly forty-five minuets after Sherlock heard John climb the steps to his room and he was certain that John was asleep, he slipped into the living room and collected John’s computer.


	3. Lord Hamish Earns A Prize

John sat at his computer, typing away at his blog when he heard shattering glass, hissing, and yelling in quick succession. 

“JOHN! John! Get him off of me!” 

John ran into the kitchen and was confronted with the sight of Lord Hamish hissing on Sherlock’s shoulders behind his head, Sherlock trying to pull Lord Hamish off him, and a shattered 500 mL beaker on the floor. 

“Sherlock, Sherlock, stop. Just stand still for a moment.” Sherlock stopped trying to grab at Lord Hamish and let his arms drop limply to his sides. John walked over and ran his hand through the kittens fur, trying to calm the poor thing down. It looked quite distressed. Soon the kitten allowed John to lift him from Sherlock’s back and place him on the floor, and then he rocketed straight into the living room. John steered Sherlock into one of the chairs, “I’m going to take a look okay? Take off your shirt.” 

Sherlock sighed and started to unbutton his shirt, then pulled it down to expose his shoulders and upper back, never taking the shirt fully off. As the ivory skin was revealed John’s breath caught and his pulse elevated slightly. He hoped Sherlock did not notice, and opted to ignore what was happening and not think of it again. There were a few shallow marks from where Lord Hamish had dug his claws into Sherlock’s flesh, but nothing that needed attention. John gently ran a hand over the expanse of warm skin anyways.

Sherlock did, in fact, notice. For the thousandth time he thought that if he would be able to form a successful relationship with anyone, that person would be John. He still was not sure of he even wanted anything. Or if John wanted anything, of course, because what John wanted did in fact matter. He meant it when he said alone protects him, but John did live with him. Was his friend. He was not exactly alone anymore. The thought that perhaps he should ask John to leave crossed his mind, but he physically flinched at the thought. He felt nauseous and strangely empty, so he disregarded the thought immediately. He shivered slightly when John caressed his skin, pulling him away from his wondering thoughts, “John, I’m sure it’s fine. Can I put my shirt back on?”

“Yes, of course. Hamish didn’t do any real damage. Care to tell me what happened?”

“I did not notice Lord Hamish’s presence in the kitchen, tripped over him, dropped the beaker, which was still empty, and it must have startled Lord Hamish because he started hissing and climbing me.” 

“Oh, poor thing.” Sherlock scoffed at John’s words and rolled his eyes, “I’m fine.”

“I was talking about Hamish.” Sherlock finished buttoning his shirt and turned back to his experiment, pulling out another 500 mL beaker, “Lord Hamish, John.”

John rolled his eyes at his flat mate and went in search of the broom, because heaven forbid Sherlock should actually cleaned up a mess, regardless of what happened the other night. 

 

Mycroft stood in front of 221B Baker Street alongside Detective Inspector Lestrade. This was the last place on earth that Mycroft wanted to be, but Greg told Mycroft that this was something that he needed to be present for, because Sherlock was his brother even if their relationship was a bit… different. 

Greg placed his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder in a comforting manner, and then banged in the door. They did not have to wait long before John answered the door, “Greg, Mycroft, what are you doing here?”

Mycroft brushed past a very confused John into the flat, and Greg looked at John apologetically, “We have something that we need to talk to you and Sherlock about.”

John let Greg in and closed the door before joining Greg on the couch, “We?”

Sherlock appeared in the doorway and looked over the scene, shocked at what he noticed, “Really Mycroft? Weren’t you the one who always told me that caring was not an advantage, that alone protects you?”

Before Mycroft was able to form a response, he noticed the white and brown kitten sitting on the desk. It was staring at him, with its ears laid back as if it was irritated. It noticed that Mycroft was watching it, and it sat up on the edge of the desk, still watching Mycroft intently. 

“What is that, that thing doing?” Mycroft asked John, without taking his eyes off of the beast. John looked at Lord Hamish and then back at Mycroft, the amusement blatantly evident on his face, “It’s a kitten. Do you not like cats Mycroft?”

Sherlock smiled mischievously as he collected Lord Hamish off the desk and sat down next to Mycroft, who shifted his weight away from Sherlock and sneered at the cat, “Not particularly, no.” Lord Hamish crawled onto the back of the couch and sat up next to Sherlock’s head. Mycroft glared at the creature, and Lord Hamish hissed, baring his teeth at Mycroft. John, Sherlock, and even Greg all chuckled at the exchange. 

John turned to Greg, “So, what was it that you needed to talk to us about?”

“Well, you know that my wife and I have been divorced officially for about two months now right?” John nodded, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Just spit it out, you and Mycroft are dating. For what, two weeks now?”

Mycroft looked relieved, Greg looked slightly annoyed, John looked shocked, and Sherlock looked expressionlessly at his brother. John was the first to speak, “Well, that’s great I guess. Odd, I didn’t even know you guys really talked. How uh, exactly did this happen?”

Greg looked at Mycroft and smiled before speaking, “Well, I’ve known Mycroft for about eight years now. I met Mycroft for the first time shortly after I met Sherlock, and in a twisted way we bonded over trying to get him clean. We’ve remained friends, and a few weeks ago, I asked him to dinner. I still don’t know what compelled me to do it, but I’m glad I did. Even though he said no at first.” Greg had expected Mycroft to make some comment at that, but when he looked over he saw that Mycroft was in a fight with Lord Hamish.

Lord Hamish had moved closer to Mycroft, and had started swatting at Mycroft’s hair. Mycroft pushed the kitten away again, and he just walked right back over and attacked Mycroft’s hair again. Lord Hamish looked absolutely determined to kill Mycroft’s hair. Sherlock was grinning at the sight, and caught John’s eye, “Are you sure Lord Hamish doesn’t have a murderous streak John?”

“Just for Mycroft I guess.” 

Greg saved Mycroft by picking up Lord Hamish and letting him settle in his lap, although the kitten continued to stare at Mycroft’s hair intently. Greg absentmindedly stroked Lord Hamish and continued his speech, “Anyways, things are going well so far and we, well I, decided that we should tell you before Sherlock deduced it out of nowhere. Well, not nowhere but randomly. You know what I mean. What I’m saying is that you’re my friend and I wanted to tell you, even though Sherlock still managed to beat me to the punch line.”

Mycroft leaned forward and rested his hands on his umbrella, and as Mycroft moved Lord Hamish lunged from Greg’s lap and attempted to attack Mycroft’s hair yet again. Mycroft pushed the kitten back to the couch and stood up, highly aggravated, “I think that you have told them all that they need to know at this point Gregory. We should leave.” 

Lord Hamish settled on Sherlock’s lap, watching Mycroft until he left the room. Sherlock smirked and petted Lord Hamish, “You were right John; he is the defender of 221B. He’s successfully defended us against the horrible Mycroft and his awful hair.”

Greg shook his head at Mycroft’s retreating back and left after telling Sherlock that he did not have any cases at the moment, and making plans with John for the next week. Sherlock looked at John after he closed the door behind Greg, “I think that Lord Hamish should be rewarded for that display. We should get him something.”

That evening Sherlock, much to John’s surprise, bought Lord Hamish a cat tree. It was a floor to ceiling model, with two platforms offset by three open circles about two and a half feet in diameter each. Sherlock placed the box next to John and stripped off his coat, “I was thinking you could put it right next to the door, that way when Mycroft comes by Lord Hamish can pounce directly onto his head.”

“I could put it? Sherlock, you bought the thing, and you are more than capable of putting it together.” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “I’m busy John. My culture is almost ready. You do it.” With that Sherlock slipped into the kitchen, followed closely by Lord Hamish, who seemed fascinated by every one of Sherlock’s experiments. John sighed and placed the box on Sherlock’s chair, turned off the television, and went to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment, comments help give me confidence in my writing, they help me become a better writer.


	4. Assembling the Cat Tree... Sort of.

John awoke the next morning to find Sherlock asleep on the couch, one leg was hanging off the edge and the other hooked over the back. He had one arm arched over his head and the other draped across his chest, and Lord Hamish was curled up on his stomach, his paws and head resting on Sherlock’s arm. It was a rare sight to actually find Sherlock asleep, looking completely peaceful and not closed off, or condescending, or irritated. John loved those rare moments. 

John had to be at work in two hours, so he took a shower, brushed his teeth, put food in Lord Hamish’s bowl, made himself breakfast, and made a couple slices of toast for Sherlock. John left the toast on the coffee table in the hopes that Sherlock would actually eat it when he woke and left for work. Lord Hamish lifted his head curiously at the noise from the plate, and then looked around irritably with his ears laid back before resting his head back on his paws and closing his eyes again. John smiled at the two and left for work. 

A few hours later Sherlock stirred. He felt something fuzzy and warm rubbing against his hand, and for a second he could not figure out what it was. He pushed it away, and the fuzzy thing mewed. He opened his eyes to a very irritated Lord Hamish sitting up on his chest. The kitten placed a tiny paw on Sherlock’s chin and meowed, as if it was trying to tell Sherlock that it was time to wake up and be entertaining. Sherlock stuck his tongue out at the kitten, who in turn moved his other paw onto Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock glared at the kitten as he picked Lord Hamish up and placed him onto the back of the couch before turning to face the coffee table. 

Sherlock saw the toast on the coffee table, naturally, but he chose to ignore it. Lord Hamish pounced off of Sherlock’s side onto the table, circling the palate a couple of times before stopping to sniff the toast. After what appeared to be a thorough examination, Lord Hamish lay next to the plate and looked at Sherlock, his tail sweeping back and forth between the plate and the edge of the table. Sherlock glared at the kitten, who relentlessly stared back, and eventually Sherlock reluctantly picked up a piece of toast, looking at it as if it was the most vile thing he had ever had the misfortune of handling. He was convinced that John and Lord Hamish maliciously plotted this together. Well, perhaps not maliciously, but it was two on one and very much so not fair. 

Once Sherlock finished one slice of toast he pushed the plate across the table. It did not matter how cute Lord Hamish was he would not eat the other slice. So there. 

Something caught Lord Hamish’s attention and he darted across the room. Sherlock was mildly interested in what the kitten was getting into, so he pulled himself off of the couch and walked over by the television. Somehow, Lord Hamish had gotten ahold of one of John’s older jumpers last night and dragged it over by the entertainment center. He had managed to curl it up and form a makeshift bed out of it, and it looked rather comfortable to Sherlock. He imagined it must smell like John. 

He turned back to the main room. He looked at the box sitting on his chair and considered putting the cat tree together himself, but he had asked John to do it, therefore doing it himself would be the equivalent of surrendering. Sherlock wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge, which was completely empty. John had finally had enough and thrown out Sherlock’s last experiment, and Sherlock had yet to get more samples from Molly. He the slammed the door shut and sulked back into the living room. 

Why did John insist on having a job? Sherlock had enough money; John did not need a job. If John did not have a job then he would not be bored right now. Or at least he could find a way to entertain himself through John. Maybe he should go to the hospital and pay John a visit. For some reason he thought that John may not like that. Sherlock flung himself back onto the couch and stared at the ceiling, feeling certain that his brain would rot from boredom by the time John got home from work, and then John would have no one to blame but himself and his stupid job. 

He decided that he should tell John as such.

"John, my brain is rotting from boredom. Come home at once, I need something to occupy my mind. SH"

"Play with the cat Sherlock. I’m at work."

"I can’t, Lord Hamish is sleeping in one of your jumpers. He made a bed. SH"

"Why did you give him one of my jumpers?"

"I didn’t. He got ahold of it himself somehow. SH"

"Well figure something out. Something that does NOT involve burning down the flat or forming toxic fumes. I’m at WORK Sherlock; I’ll see you in a few hours."

Sherlock glared at the last text and hoped John could feel it at work, then tossed his phone to the floor. He pulled his knees into his chest and wrapped his arms around them, staring at the back of the couch, just… thinking.

A loud meow pulled the detective out of his head. He looked around and saw Lord Hamish sitting atop the box for his Cat Tree. No, not sitting, attacking. Lord Hamish shredded the majority of one of the corners, and when Sherlock turned to look he started to bite into the cardboard. Apparently, Lord Hamish wanted to play with his new toy now. Sherlock glared disdainfully at Lord Hamish until the sight and noise was too much and Sherlock removed himself from the couch once again. 

An hour later found Sherlock sitting in the mist of the contents of the box and burning the instructions with a match. Lord Hamish was pawing at the ashes falling through the air, occasionally snapping at one. They did not make any sense. Not in English nor Chinese nor French. It was infuriating, he did not need the instructions anyways; surely a genius like him could figure out how to put together a simple Cat Tree. 

He stood on the coffee table with Lord Hamish in his arms and looked down at the mess in front of him, “scanning” all the pieces to figure out where to start. Sherlock felt a tugging on his dressing gown and looked down to see Lord Hamish attempting to climb onto his shoulder. He smiled slightly and helped the kitten up, who curled over his shoulder and rubbed his head against Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock carefully sat crisscross on the table, as to not cause Lord Hamish to fall, and looked over at the kitten. 

“What are your thoughts on Mycroft and Lestrade?” Lord Hamish responded by purring and Sherlock frowned. 

“If Mycroft can form a functional relationship surely I can as well. I could have an even better relationship then Mycroft could ever dream of.” Lord Hamish continued purring on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

When John arrived home, the bits and pieces of the Cat Tree were still scattered across the living room and Sherlock was laying with his back on the coffee table, Lord Hamish curled on his chest, and his legs stretched out so his feet were resting on his chair. Sherlock turned his head to look at John with a perfectly bored expression, “You need to put together the cat tree.”

John looked over the mess and noticed the little mound of ashes, “Sherlock, what’s this?”

“The instructions.”

“And why are they burned?”

“Because they were useless John, obviously.”

“Obviously, okay. Right.” John shook his head but started to put the toy together regardless. While he was working his phone went off, “Hello? ... Hey Greg…Alright, what does that have to do with us? ... I see, so, like a favor… Yeah, I’ll see what I can do. It sounds like fun… I’ll let you know, later.”

Sherlock sat up, and an angered Lord Hamish hissed and jumped onto the couch, “What did Lestrade want?”

“Well, it seems that the Yard is doing one of those trust building deals, where you go out and do some sort of event with your coworkers and their significant others. They are planning a camping trip, and Lestrade wants us to go.”

“Why?”

“Well, first of all it would actually be good for you to get on better terms with some of the officers. But, apparently Mycroft said that the only way he would go was if Lestrade could convince you to go. I guess Mycroft doesn’t think that’s possible.”

“He’s correct. Why on earth would I want to go camping, not only with officers that I despise but my brother as well?”

“Think about it this way, you get to see your brother completely out of his element, surrounded by people who are more knowledgeable and have more experience then he does about this particular thing. Plus, I think that it’d be fun. I want to go.”

Sherlock glared at John, “Why do you want to go? What’s so appealing about camping?”

“It’s just… fun. I like to be out in the wilderness, grouped around a fire and sharing stories, playing music, cooking food over the open flame. Didn’t you enjoy camping as a child?” John looked absolutely gleeful while reminiscing about his camping experience. 

“I never went camping. Neither did Mycroft… Fine, if you really want to go, then we can go.” Sherlock was strangely okay with doing anything that made John so happy.

“Brilliant. I’ll let Greg know, he’ll be pleased. It’s this weekend, we leave Friday night. Now help me stand this up and fit it by the door.”

“No.”

John struggled with the Cat Tree alone, but Sherlock finally intervened and helped when Lord Hamish decided it would be a good idea to try and run up the thing before it was set properly. Lord Hamish sat on top of one of the uppermost circles and swiped his paws at the boy’s heads. John was too short for the kitten to reach, but Lord Hamish managed to get his claws caught in Sherlock’s curly hair. John chuckled at how irritated Sherlock was and helped get them untangled, having to stand on his toes to do so. 

He was taking too long and Sherlock turned to try and pull away, causing John to fall forward and Hamish to screech. Sherlock managed to catch and steady John as Lord Hamish finally pulled his paw free and hissed at the boys. John realized that he was standing excruciatingly close to the detective. He looked up to see Sherlock gazing down at him with a curious expression on his face, and instead of backing up like he knew he should, John found himself pushing onto his toes to put himself closer to Sherlock. 

At that moment Lord Hamish decided that it would be a good time to pounce onto John’s head. John cursed under his breath and mumbled something about having to make dinner as he shoved Lord Hamish into Sherlock’s arms, feeling exceedingly stupid for what had almost happened. He completely missed the fact that Sherlock was glaring venomously at Lord Hamish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave comments, not only do they make me feel warm and fuzzy, but they make me more confident with my writing. Also, I greatly appreciate constructive criticism, I strive to be a better writer.


	5. Gather Around the Campfire

Friday came much too quickly in Sherlock’s opinion. Unlike John, he was not anxious to wonder out into the middle of a forest surrounded only by people he did not know, like, or trust. John, on the other hand, was buzzing with excitement. He checked their bag several times while they were awaiting the arrival of one of Mycroft’s cars. 

Greg had suggested that the four of them ride together to the campsite, but Sherlock refused. After a long argument with the stubborn detective, it was finally arranged that Sherlock and John would borrow one of Mycroft’s many cars (Sherlock says “many” but in reality, Mycroft only had two- not that he was unable get more if he desired to do so) and John would drive them. Of course, Mycroft had to show his superiority by having one of his workers actually drop off the car at 221 Baker Street, then leave.

Sherlock sat in his chair, not helping but not hindering either. John walked back into the living room, tossing the duffle bag with both their things onto his chair. They really only needed a few things, so it had seemed pointless to pack two bags. 

“Sherlock, change into some jeans or something, you really don’t want to wear your nice clothes hiking through the forest do you?”

“John, I don’t even own a pair of jeans, what do you want me to do?”

“We have two hours before we have to head out, go buy a pair!” Sherlock glared at John and John sighed, “Alright, seriously. Come on.” John grabbed Sherlock by his arm and dragged him out into the street. They -Sherlock- hailed a cab and headed to a close by store. 

Sherlock stood in a tiny dressing room with several pairs of jeans and a few shirts. Sherlock put a lot of effort into how he looked, on the days he actually decided to get dressed that is. He had already discarded several outfits, and John was getting irritated.

John was sitting outside the dressing rooms, feeling a little awkward. He kept thinking about the fact that the last time he had been waiting outside a dressing room, he had been shopping with an ex-girlfriend. Well, following around an ex while she shopped. John kept cutting off that train of thought before it could go anywhere else. He had figured that Sherlock would just grab the first thing that fit, but no, Sherlock insisted on trying on everything in the entire store. 

“Sherlock! Just pick something out and let’s go!” Sherlock ignored John and pulled on a pair of dark blue wranglers and a form fitting purple shirt. He thought that it was acceptable, for what it was, and stepped out of the dressing room, “Does this work for you?”

John managed to stop himself before he said “Oh god yes.” The shirt was the same shade of purple as the dress shirt Sherlock owned that John secretly adored, and it the way that it clung to him body made his movements look like liquid. Plus, seeing Sherlock in jeans was just… sexy. Not that John was in any way interested in his very emotionally unavailable, and male, flat mate. Nope, not at all. John settled with simply nodding, “Yeah, just grab another set of those and let’s go, we’re going to be late.”

Sherlock looked at him questionably when John’s voice came out a bit deeper than normal and John blushed slightly and avoided eye contact. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but other then that let it go and returned to the dressing room. They finally left the store with two pairs of dark wranglers, the purple shirt, a green shirt and a deep blue shirt that both fit exactly like the purple one. When they arrived back at the flat John shoved the outfit that Sherlock tried on in the shop into Sherlock’s arms and told him to change while he exchanged the nice cloths in the duffle bag for the cloths Sherlock just purchased. 

Sherlock stepped out of his room and John refrained from ogling, not that he would ever ogle Sherlock in the first place. John collected their bags, the duffle bag and the bag holding their tent, while Sherlock hunted down Lord Hamish. After he found the little monster Sherlock proceeded to gather the bag with his food in it and the jumper that Lord Hamish has dubbed as his bed instead of the bed that John bought him. They headed to Mrs. Hudson’s flat. They decided that it would be best for Lord Hamish to stay in her flat then to leave him upstairs alone. John was afraid that if they left him in the flat and abandoned him for three days that they would return home to a shredded couch and two shredded chair in way of revenge. 

“Oh isn’t he just the cutest little kitten!” Mrs. Hudson ran her hand through Lord Hamish’s fluffy fur. Sherlock simply nodded and set up the jumper at the end of Mrs. Hudson’s couch. Lord Hamish jumped out of Mrs. Hudson’s arms and ran to the jumper, circling it and pawing it until he decided it was good enough to curl up in. John thanked Mrs. Hudson yet again and Sherlock promised her that he would at least try to have fun. 

The drive was uneventful; Sherlock stared out the window and thought about John, wondering if John was in fact interested in him, mulling over all of the little things that could have been interpreted that way, and made no comment while John focused on driving, and absolutely did not sneak glances at the detective in the passenger seat. 

They pulled into a wide dirt lot near the forest fifteen minutes late. Lestrade stood with Mycroft, Anderson, Donavan, and six other officers that neither John nor Sherlock recognized. John parked the car next to Mycroft’s other car, grabbed the tent and tossed the duffle bag into Sherlock’s lap, “Come on, lets go.”

They exited the car and were welcomed by Donavan’s unpleasant voice, “Oh look, the freak and his dog finally decided to show!” Anderson and a couple of other officers laughed. Sherlock and John simply ignored her existence, but the laughter stopped quickly as Mycroft glared at them dangerously. 

“Mycroft, Lestrade.” Greeted Sherlock, who ignored the existence of the other eight people. John greeted Greg warmly and nodded towards Mycroft in acknowledgment, who returned the gesture. Mycroft was wearing jeans and a gray shirt, and where seeing Sherlock dressed down was intriguing, seeing Mycroft dressed down was incredibly disconcerting. Somehow it made the man seem even more dangerous, maybe it was just the fact that John had an inkling of the power Mycroft held. 

Greg grasped John’s shoulder, “I’m really glad that the two of you were able to make it, and not just because it got “Mr. Stick-up-his-ass” out here.” Greg gestured to Mycroft.

“I’m glad you invited us. It’ll be fun, and definitely interesting to see the Holmes’s out here.”

Mycroft announced that everyone who had agreed to participate was present; therefore they should proceed to the campsite. John rolled his eyes and the group made their way into the forest. 

There was a fifteen-minute hike from where the cars were parked though the woods to a rather large clearing near a river. Sherlock, Mycroft, Greg, and John trailed a bit behind the bulk of the group, John and Greg chatting away and enjoying the scenery a few paces ahead of Mycroft and Sherlock who were walking in awkward and tense silence, neither of the brothers wanting to be there. 

Sherlock and Mycroft stood silently off to the side and observed while all the others worked on pitching the tent, Sherlock looking bored and Mycroft hovering with the air of a supervisor, even though in this particular scenario he had no real authority. No more then twenty minutes into trying to pitch the tent John yelled over for Sherlock, “Sherlock, get over here and help me you lazy git. And Mycroft, you could make yourself useful too, help Greg or collect firewood or something.” Mycroft glared at John, then at the trees. Greg said something that neither John nor Sherlock could hear, and then Mycroft reluctantly trudged into the forest. After a lot of muttered curses from John and mumbled apologies coupled with scorching glares from Sherlock, they managed to get their tent set. 

“That, was one of the most annoying things I have ever been forced to do.” Sherlock lay limply on the sleeping bag he had just rolled out and John laughed at him, “You can chase criminals across London and run over rooftops, which I had never imagined people actually did, but pitching a tent is debilitating?” 

“Yes! It is dull and has no purpose! I have a perfectly good bed at home.” John continued laughing and Sherlock joined in, not necessarily because he appreciated John’s statement, but because John’s laughter was rather contagious. It was difficult for Sherlock to remain irritated or upset when John was so happy. 

“Well, I suppose we should go help gather firewood, were going to want to have plenty when it gets dark and cold.” They stepped out of the tent, John headed towards the woods but Sherlock grabbed his arm, “ John, the only people absent are Lestrade and Mycroft.” John looked over, Anderson was by the river talking with three of the other officers while they fished, and Donavan was sitting with the other three unknown officers, one of which was starting to build a fire with what wood had already been collected. Naturally, Sherlock was correct. Only Greg and Mycroft were missing, “Well, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

“I’m not eager to take that risk. There’s a decent sized pile of wood already, I’m sure we can just collect more in the morning.”

John glanced once more along the tree line, where there was no sign of either of the men, “I suppose.”

“So, what exactly does one do whilst camping?” 

“Enjoy nature, hike through the woods, practice shooting, fish, cook over the open flame, and talk around the fire.”

“Practice shooting?”

“Well, when I was younger, my father and I would set up bottles and shoot them off fallen trees. I learned how to shoot a gun out in the forest and perfected it by the riverside. But that might not be the best idea for this particular trip, we don’t need you shooting Anderson by “accident.””

Sherlock looked shocked and offended by that statement, but John could see the air of amusement underneath and smiled. He walked over to the group by the fire and noticed that one of the men had a guitar sitting out, and it was absolutely gorgeous.

“Hey man, is that your guitar? It’s a beauty.” The man turned to look at John.

“Yeah, my girlfriend just bought it for me. I haven’t been playing very long, but she insisted that I bring it anyways. I don’t know why I let her talk me into bringing it; she wasn’t even able to be here. Name’s Rick Jones.” Rick held out his hand and John took it in a firm grip.

“John Watson. How long have you been playing?”

“Oh, about two years. You play?”

“Yeah, actually. I started playing when I was thirteen, but it’s been years since I touched a guitar.”

“You want a go?”

“You sure? Yeah.”

“Yeah, go for it.” John smiled and took a seat on the tree trunk that had been pulled over to form a makeshift bench, picking up the guitar. Sherlock was intrigued. John caressed the instrument, he pulled the pick away from where it was tucked in the strings and fiddled with the turners, making sure it was tuned. 

He smiled a shy smile, and started playing. He closed his eyes as he began to sing.

“I’m an accident, I was driving way too fast.  
Couldn’t stop though, so I let the moment last.  
I’m for rollin’, I’m tossing in my sleep.  
It’s not guilt though, it’s not the company I keep.

People my age, they don’t do the things I do.  
They go somewhere, while I run away with you”

Sherlock was completely taken aback. He had had no idea that John played the guitar, or could sing. John could absolutely do both, and do both well. Sherlock watched John intently, he looked so, so, open and content. It was painfully obvious that John loved playing the guitar, and Sherlock could watch him play forever, just memorizing all of the different micro-expressions that fluttered across his face. Sherlock wondered if he was that beautiful when he was playing his violin. He concluded that that was not humanly possible.

“I was too tired to see the news when I got home  
pulled the curtain, fell into bed alone  
Started dreaming, saw the rider once again  
In the doorway where she stood and watched for him  
Watched for him.

I’m not present, I’m the drug that makes you dream  
I’m an Aerostar, I’m a Cutlass Supreme  
In the wrong lane, trying to turn against the flow  
I’m the ocean, I’m the giant undertow  
I’m the ocean, I’m the giant undertow.”

Someone started clapping as John finished up the song, and Sherlock was surprised to notice that everyone had gathered around the fire during John’s performance, including a rather shaken looking Mycroft and Greg. John started to set aside the guitar, but multiple people asked John to play another song, and Sherlock vehemently agreed that he should. John asked if anyone wanted to hear anything specific, and one of he girls asked if he knew anything by Death Cab for Cutie. Turns out he knew one. Sherlock did not pay much attention to the words, opting to focus on John himself instead, but the chorus did catch his attention and irrationally irritated him.

“You’ll be loved, you’ll be loved  
Like you never have known,  
And memories of me will seem more like bad dreams  
Just a series of blurs, like I never occurred  
Someday you will be loved.”

If John stubbornly and irritatingly refused to be deleted from his mind in any form, how could a boring average female possibly forget him? Sherlock had so much John related trivia stored that he had made a cabin for all of it on the grounds of his mind-palace. He figured that John would be more comfortable in a cabin as opposed to the elegant gothic style palace filled with science and death. The cabin was wooden; it was warm and sturdy, reliable and practical. In regards to more recent knowledge Sherlock put a cluster of trees between the palace and the cabin, and formed a river close to the other side. Inside the cabin there was a living room, kitchen, dining area, study, bedroom, bathroom, and several spare rooms each with many John facts. 

Take the bathroom. That held the fact that John is ambidextrous. He generally uses his right hand, but occasionally he does something here or there with his left hand instead, just to see if he still can. The one exception to this patter is when John brushes his teeth; he always uses his left hand. In the kitchen were facts like how John hated ice. He said that it was annoying to drink something that was watery before you were halfway done with it. In one of the spare rooms that was designated for case-related data was the exact expression of wonder and awe that John would direct at Sherlock, and the inflection in his voice as he told Sherlock he was “amazing” or “incredible.” The next spare room held several of John’s tells, what John looks like when he’s getting irritated or angry, or when he’s pleased with Sherlock. 

Sherlock noticed a dramatic shift in the music, which pulled him away from the cabin, and realized that John had changed songs.

“Oh man is a giddy thing, oh man is a giddy thing.”

John chuckled softly, then looked up and caught Sherlock’s eye, smiling, as he sang the ending.

“Love will not betray you, dismay or enslave you,  
It will set you free  
Be more like the man you were meant to be  
There is a design, an alignment, a cry  
Of my heart to see,  
The beauty of love is it was made to be.”

Sherlock felt as though John had been singing to him and him alone, and the effect left Sherlock feeling confused, slightly breathless, and light headed. The rest of the evening was spent eating fish, later eating s’mores, and generally chatting, getting to know each other. There was Rick Jones, Melissa and James Stevens, Maryna Benton, Patrick Harden, and Sean Ashman. Sherlock sat next to John, and since John told Sherlock he was not allowed to announce any deductions to the group he whispered them into John’s ear. He was rewarded with the occasional gasp and/or compliment from John. Soon the sun set and the fire withered down to embers, and the group decided that it was time to turn in for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, that got really long, and we're not even halfway through the camping experience. We still have the night, saturday and saturday night, and sunday morning. So, upcoming: Why Mycroft looked shaken, how Mrs. Hudson and Lord Hamish are doing, more interaction with the other campers, flirting with John and Sherlock's reaction, sports, tension between Sherlock and John, pranks on Anderson and Donavan, and possibly more guitar playing.
> 
> Don't get too spoiled, I can't promise that there are going to be many other chapters over 2,000 words.
> 
> Just to clarify, I made up the place that they are camping at. That's why there is no name or any landmarks. This is based on how I camped when I lived in Alaska, we would go out, set up camp, fish, play ultimate frisbee, build a fire and play music and sing, cook our catch, all that fun stuff. When I was eight my dad taught me how to shoot on one of our camping trips, and after that we always had shooting practice. I'm not sure if that's allowed in England, but that's what we did in Alaska.
> 
> Songs:
> 
> -First song is "I'm the Ocean" by Neil Young. Amazing song, amazing artist, If you don't know him then shame on you, go look it up.
> 
> -Second song is "Someday You Will Be Loved" by Death Cab for Cutie. John only knows it because of an ex girlfriend, but that will be explained later.
> 
> -Third song is "Sigh No More" by Mumford & Sons, also an amazing song and an amazing band. Another one you should look up if you don't know them.
> 
> You all rock, please keep commenting! This was good, this chapter was disappointing, all opinions welcome and wanted :) Seriously, reviews make the world go round.


	6. Love Shack

Mycroft and Greg were the first to excuse themselves for bed, followed shortly by Melissa and James, Anderson, Donavan, until only Sherlock and John remained. John was sitting crisscross on the ground leaning against the tree trunk and watching the embers. He always thought that the embers were the most beautiful part of a fire; it made him think of glowing rubies. Sherlock scooted over so that his leg was almost touching John’s shoulder. John rolled his head back so it rested on the trunk as well and looked at the stars, “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Sherlock looked up at the vast field of stars in the sky, “Yeah, I suppose it is.” John sighed happily, “So you really never went camping? With your dad or friends or anything?”

Sherlock looked down at John, puzzled, “Is that odd?”

John looked back at Sherlock thoughtfully, tilting his head so that it was resting slightly against Sherlock’s knee, “Hmm, a little. It’s a little sad. I mean, you’re the only person I know who never went camping as a kid.” 

Sherlock just stared at John, not exactly sure what to think. John suddenly sat up and turned to face Sherlock, smiling mischievously, “Hey, since you never got the experience as a child, lets play some juvenile pranks on Anderson and Donavan.”  
Sherlock grinned wickedly in reply. 

The two slid silently into Anderson and Donavan’s tent. The two were sleeping on separate sides of the tent facing away from each other. John picked up both their bags and placed them outside the tent, and then Sherlock and John carefully lifted Anderson in his sleeping bag and carried him to the edge of the river, hoping that he would wake up by rolling into it. They then returned to the tent, John open up the outside couple of pockets on Donavan’s bag until he found a hair-tie. He pulled out a pocketknife and cut it, then used the piece to tie up the zipper so that Donavan would be unable to open the tent doors. Finally, they walked a few paces into the woods, right off of the trail, and tied up the two bags in a tree. When they finished, John said that it was time that they turned in. 

Around sunrise, the campers were awoken by a loud string of curses that sounded suspiciously like Anderson. Sherlock and John looked at each other, and then broke out in laughter. John started to calm down but made the mistake of looking at Sherlock again, which only made him laugh harder. Sherlock was laughing so hard he could not breath, and wondered if it was possible to pass out from the lack of oxygen. Sherlock tried to get out of his sleeping bag, but was unable to find the end of the zipper, and managed to get himself twisted awkwardly. John shimmied out of his sleeping bag and flipped Sherlock and pulled on the zipper. Sherlock stood and glared at the sleeping bag, then opened his bag and began dressing. 

“Yeah, no need to thank me” John muttered. Sherlock ignored John and pulled off his pajama shirt. John stared at his exposed flesh, the muscles moving underneath. He wanted to run his hands over the smooth skin and bury his face in the other mans neck, he wondered if Sherlock smelled as good as he looked. Suddenly, John felt dirty. He shamefully zipped the separation closed and changed. 

John exited the tent and walked over to the remains of the fire from the previous night. He kicked a stone into the cinders; apparently he is a little gay. After these past few weeks, it would be foolish to continue to deny his attraction for Sherlock. After all theses lingering glances and fleeting thoughts that he had pathetically been explaining away, really it’s just silly. It was time to accept it and move on with his life. Suddenly, someone started yelling, John looked up to see Sherlock standing in front of Donavan’s tent, Anderson was walking into the forest, presumably searching for his and Donavan’s bag.

“LET ME THE FUCK OUT YOU FUCKIN’ FREAK!” 

“Now Donavan, that wasn’t very kind.” John rolled his eyes and walked over, handing his pocketknife to Sherlock. He raised an eyebrow and took the knife, and then leaned in closer to the tent, “Ask nicely and then I’ll cut the tie.”

Donavan punched Sherlock square in the jaw through the tent. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, then stormed back to his tent, still in possession of John’s knife. 

John sighed and followed Sherlock, who was lying on top of his sleeping bag staring at the separation, which was still zipped closed. 

“Sherlock?” 

“What John?”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Boring. There’s nothing to talk about.”

John just shook his head. Sherlock was being such a child, hiding out in his “room.” It’s not like that was the first time he had been punched in the face for being a dick. He decided to rejoin the group and wait for Sherlock to act his age. 

Sherlock wondered why John had separated the tent into two separate rooms. He had actually slept last night; did he do something in his sleep that annoyed John? He did not have any odd sleeping habits that he knew of anyways. That was the only thing that made sense, except for the fact that it did not make sense because John did not close it until morning. Sherlock irritably ran his hands through his hair, he could vaguely hear Donavan and Anderson arguing, they must have gotten everything sorted out. Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed deeply, he knew that John and certainly everyone else assumed that he was sitting in the tent because Donavan punched him, but in reality, it was because he was getting no amusement from the pranks.

He should be, he quite enjoyed pranks as a child, especially when the victim was Mycroft. He hated Donavan and Anderson more then he hated Mycroft, (since he did not actually hate Mycroft, not that he would ever admit that) and even though the pranks were not nearly as creative as they could have been, he still should be enjoying their irritation and mild humiliation. The problem was that he was unable to figure out why John closed the separation, or why the fact that John closed the separation was bothering him in the first place. He needed silence and solitude to contemplate the issue.

Sherlock glared at the separation again, as if he could intimidate the cloth into spilling all the answers he desired. He realized that the cloth did not hold any answers, and his thoughts became circular. Sherlock drew the knife out of his pocket and flicked it open, never looking away from the separation. He suddenly stood up and stabbed the separation, dragging the knife down through the cloth, leaving a gaping tear down the full length. He picked at the edge of the tear, and a smile momentarily crossed his features. After that Sherlock slashed the cloth to hell, effectively shredding it until only a few strips of cloth hung from the ceiling of the tent and he was slightly breathless. 

After a moment he glared at the knife. John was going to be angry when he realized what Sherlock did. He pocketed John’s knife and decided he should attempt to get an answer from John. He smoothed his shirt, still feeling uncomfortable in the itchy jeans. So far they had done nothing that Sherlock would have been unable to accomplish in his slacks. He shook his head and stepped out of the tent.

It did not take Sherlock long to find John, who was playing rugby with the rest of the group by the riverside. He stood off to the side and watched, mostly watching John. Sherlock could tell that John had played for most, if not all, of his high school career. John, as always, made friends with everyone and was on a team composed of only people he had just met. It was John, Rick, Patrick, Sean, Melissa and James against Maryna, Donavan, Anderson, Mycroft, and Greg. 

John had the ball and was running along the very edge of the water, when Maryna caught up to him and yanked on the end of his shirt causing him to fall back into the water. She lost balance and dropped to her knees next to him in the water, giggling. Sherlock was fairly certain that what she just did there was illegal, and it irrationally angered him that the two of them were laughing together. She splashed water in John’s face playfully and snagged the ball, throwing it awkwardly to Greg as John pulled on her other arm causing her to fall back and get completely soaked as well. 

Sherlock stormed over to the two, analyzing everything about the girl. He wanted to send her crawling back to her tent in tears for the remainder of the trip. Maryna stood, her pants and light green shirt sticking to her body, and Sherlock noticed John’s eyes rake down her body and back up again, leaving Sherlock feeling faintly sick. 

John noticed Sherlock walking over and jumped up, “Hey Sherlock, you finally decide to join us?” Sherlock continued to scowl as John helped Maryna to her feet, ever the gentleman. He turned to Sherlock again, “I’m just going to go change into dry cloths, and then we can play another round. You’ll have to be on Greg’s team, it’s five to six right now.” With that he dashed to the tent while Maryna headed to a tent on the other end of the site. Sherlock flinched slightly when he heard John yell, “SHERLOCK HOLMES WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DID YOU DO TO MY TENT?”

Half an hour later the game was recommenced, this time with Sherlock participating. Sherlock had never been one for rugby, but it did not take him long to figure out how the game was played. His brother seemed to be struggling with the game, Sherlock was sure that Mycroft had figured out the rules just as quickly as he had, but Sherlock was much more active and stealthy then his brother had ever been, making it much easier for Sherlock to fall into the game. Mycroft was just, awkward. He kept fumbling with the ball and getting cut off, his whole facade of being in control seemed to slip slightly and Sherlock loved seeing his brother like that. Mostly Sherlock loved being better then his brother at things. 

Sherlock looked over at John while he was running to see Maryna watching John intently, and in that distraction he tripped and fell, spiraled out on his stomach, sending the ball flying a few feet ahead of him. Before he could sit up John was by his side asking him a million questions along the lines of “are you okay?” and “where does it hurt?” Maryna ran up behind John, placing a hand on his shoulder and asking of there was anything she could do to help in a sickly sweet voice as John’s gaze fell to Sherlock’s right knee, where the jeans were torn and bloody. 

“Yeah, could you go find my first aid kit? Our tent is the blue one over there, the kit should be right in the door.” He pointed in the general direction of their tent. She jogged over to the tent, and Sherlock decided that he completely and utterly hated her. Maryna handed the kit to John and he started cleaning the sand out of Sherlock’s knee. He hissed and grabbed at John’s hand, “That stings.”

“Well, it needs to be cleaned, I’m almost done.” Sherlock leaned back on his elbows and pouted while John finished up, then left to change his pants. He changed quickly, and when he rejoined the group John was offering to gather the firewood. Naturally, Maryna volunteered to accompany him. Sherlock weaseled himself in between John and The Temptress, as he was now calling her, and practically snarled at Maryna, “I’ll go with John, thank you very much.” John said they could all go. 

Maryna was walking next to John, mindlessly prattling away when Sherlock got fed up and accidentally on purpose tripped and shoved her as hard as he could into a tree. He mumbled an emotionless apology without so much as a glance in her direction and continued collecting wood. John, being the kind peacekeeper as always, apologized on Sherlock’s behalf and helped her to her feet. 

Sherlock dumped his armful of wood into the pile and turned to face Mycroft, who had wondered over. 

“Dear Brother, care for a chat?”

“No.”

“Humor me.” Mycroft strolled over to the edge of the campsite and stopped by the tree line to face Sherlock. 

“What do you want, Brother.” 

“I want to know what’s bothering you. You seem, odd.”

“What do you mean I seem odd? According to John I’m always odd.”

“I mean odd for you. You have yet to insult anyone, no one has been reduced to tears, even though it seems that you would quite like to lash out at Miss. Benton.” The two brothers stared at each other, neither willing to back down. Finally Sherlock rolled his eyes and bit out, “What’s it to you anyways Mycroft?”

“Just brotherly worry. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous of Miss. Benton’s attention towards John.” Sherlock simply glared at Mycroft till the other shook his head and walked away. Sherlock glared at the tree that Mycroft had been leaning against, Mycroft needed to learn how to mind his own business. The sound of guitar and clapping caught Sherlock’s attention.

Sherlock looked back to the campsite, the fire was going and several people were cooking hotdogs over the flame. John had gotten ahold of the guitar again and was strumming an upbeat tune, accompanied by others clapping and stomping and snapping. The Temptress was dancing around John, her voluptuous body moving gracefully and her wavy auburn hair falling out of her messy bun around her face. He got close enough to make out the words that she was singing.

“The love shack is a little old place  
Where we can get together  
Love shack baby  
Love shack ba-by  
Love shack baby  
Ooo, love shack baby.”

Then John started singing as well,

“Sign says, woo, stay away fools,  
‘cause love rules at the lo-o-ove shack!  
Well it’s set way back  
In the middle of the field  
Just a funky old shack  
And I gotta get back”

The last thing Sherlock wanted to do was watch The Temptress dance around John seductively while they sang about a “love shack” whatever that was, so he walked dejectedly back to the tent he shared with John. He laid on his sleeping bag and started reciting all of the ways he could eliminate Maryna, starting with chemical compounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if the title was making you guys expect something else... that'll come later.
> 
> For anyone that doesn't know, the song is Love Shack by the B-52's
> 
> Please continue to leave comments! They make my day :D
> 
> Seriously, I love all of you who comment. Hugs for everyone.


	7. Non-offensive Woe and Despair

Mrs. Hudson had stumbled upon a torch while she was clearing out a drawer and was sitting on her chair letting Lord Hamish chase after the little circle of light. She chuckled as the little fur ball raced every which way, caught up in the impossible chase. 

Earlier that evening Mrs. Hudson arrived home to a dead rat on her chair and Lord Hamish perched on the back, looking very pleased with himself indeed. She had almost gone to ask John to rid it for her, before remembering that her boys were away for another night. She sighed and emptied one of the grocery bags, used it to scoop up the dead mouse and tossed it out back. She then went back and gave Lord Hamish some love, thanking him for the present. 

Lord Hamish stopped chasing the light and sprinted over to the jumper-bed, burrowing in it until just his eyes and ear could be seen watching for the light. Mrs. Hudson shined the light on the floor right in front of Lord Hamish, whose tail twitched and eyes widened, before he pounced. He moved his paw, then looked around irritably when he realized the light was not there. Mrs. Hudson chuckled while she turned off the light, and Lord Hamish gave up looking for the light and crawled back into his makeshift bed. 

................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Greg noticed Sherlock retreat back to his tent. He also noticed John watching Sherlock retreat. John’s level of enthusiasm fell dramatically as Sherlock left, and Greg stood quietly and slipped around the group to follow Sherlock. 

He stepped into the tent to find Sherlock lying on his back with his hands folded under over his chin. Greg sat next to him on the ground.

“Sherlock, the point of this is to at least attempt to be social, everyone here except for James works in the department. It is very possible that one day you will work with them.”

Sherlock glanced at Greg out of the corner of his eye, but said nothing. Greg decided to take a different approach.

“You know, John has barely taken his eyes off you the entire time we’ve been out here. I mean, during rugby he was by your side before anyone had even realized you were falling. And just now, he seemed pretty upset when he saw you leaving. He just doesn’t want to be rude.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and scoffed, “He was to busy focusing on Maryna to notice me.” He spat her name as if it was the foulest of curses. Greg started laughing and Sherlock turned his head to glare at him, “What is so funny Lestrade?”

“Oh, Sherlock. For someone so clever you can be rather naive. You are seeing what you are expecting to see. Your jealousy is blinding you. You know what, I haven’t told John about this yet, but earlier Maryna told me that she was so glad that she met John because she needed a good gay friend.”

This was probably the first time that Greg had ever seen Sherlock at a loss for words. Eventually he muttered, “John isn’t gay” and resumed starting at the ceiling of the tent. He was both pleased that Maryna was not trying to seduce John (if Greg was to be believed) and pissed that Maryna was assuming things about John’s personal life when she did not know him from a hole in the wall. John got upset when people assumed they were gay. How dare she. 

“Right, of course he isn’t gay. There must be another reason why the only thing he can talk about when he’s drunk is you. Seriously, the tension between you two is getting ridiculous.”

Sherlock continued to ignore Greg. He started plotting ways to get John drunk and see what the affect would be. Greg shook his head and pulled Sherlock to his feet, “Seriously, come back out to the group. Ignore your jealously or whatever and look again.”

When they rejoined the group Rick was playing the guitar and John was giving him a few friendly pointers. Sherlock slid over and sat next to John, shoving Maryna to the side in the process. John looked at him and gave him a slight smile, and Sherlock tried to analyze John again. He did not seem upset in the slightest that Sherlock had replaced Maryna at his side. That seemed like a promising notion. Rick finished the song that he was playing, then offered the guitar to John, “You wanna play again for a bit? My fingertips are starting to hurt. I’m gonna go collect some more fire wood.” 

John began to pick at the guitar strings in a manner that led Sherlock to believe that this had once been a nervous tick for John. He wondered how often John played the guitar before, and why he never knew that John played the guitar. Melissa and James left to help Rick collect firewood; Mycroft, Greg, Anderson, and Donavan were preparing lunch; and Patrick and Sean were down by the water’s edge. After a moment Maryna joined Patrick and Sean, and Sherlock and John were left alone. 

Sherlock shifted so that he was sat facing John, who started picking out a somber tune. John mumbled some of the lyrics, and when Sherlock could not decipher what John was saying he made an irritated noise and told John to speak clearly. John looked at Sherlock as if he had just realized that Sherlock was the man was sitting next to him. He continued to look at Sherlock with a curious expression as he began to play a different song and sing louder.

“Roll away your stone, I’ll roll away mine  
Together we can see what we will find  
Don’t leave me alone at this time,  
For I’m afraid of what I will discover inside.”

Sherlock’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. The way John was looking at him, it was distracting. Sherlock could not think back over everything he had witnessed to see if there was an alternative conclusion, with John looking at him like that all he could do was look back and listen to the music. 

“Darkness is a harsh term don’t you think?  
And yet it dominates the things I see.  
Darkness is a harsh term don’t you think?  
And yet it dominates the things I’ve seen.

Stars hide your fires,  
These here are my desires  
And I will give them up to you this time around  
And so, I’ll be found with my stake struck in this ground  
Marking the territory of this newly impassioned soul.

But you,  
You’ve gone to far this time  
You have neither reason nor rhyme  
With which to take this soul  
That is so rightfully mine.”

John finished the song, and they sat in silence for a moment. Sherlock felt as though the air was thick between them, as if something heavy had just been confessed, but he could not quite figure out what it was. He feared that saying the wrong thing would have negative ramifications on this friendship that he so cherished. 

Finally, when the silence became too much, Sherlock settled on, “Why did you stop playing the guitar? Anyone could tell that you love it.”

John laughed humorlessly and shook his head.

“Oh, Sherlock. I did. I guess I still do. I found an old guitar at a second-hand store when I was about thirteen. I fell in love. It was the first thing that I really spent the effort to save up money and buy. I taught myself to play, rather quickly I believe. I spent the majority of my free time playing that guitar, and I loved it more with each passing day. I got into the army and went through the medical program, leaving me with little time to play, but it was still a part of me. 

Anyways, one day when I was home right before I started my tour in Afghanistan I was fighting with Harry. It was the biggest fight we ever had, it was about her drinking and how she was destroying her life. It lasted hours, because a thousand other fights stemmed from that, we were both yelling and screaming, and I made a comment about Clara. I don’t even remember what it was; I think it was about Clara anyways. But in response Harry grabbed that guitar off the wall and smashed it. Swung it like a bat right into the wall over and over and over. And I just stood there. I couldn’t believe that she would actually do that. She yelled at me to get out, and I did. I just left, didn’t say anything else. I had nothing left to say. I didn’t play after that. She’s apologized hundreds of times, has offered to buy me a new guitar on several occasions, but I don’t know.”

Sherlock frowned; John did not deserve to be treated like that. He opened his mouth to speak when he was suddenly hit from behind. Maryna had run up and jumped in between them, wrapping an arm around each man, “Hello! Am I interrupting something?” Anger flickered through Sherlock and he stood abruptly, so that John had to catch Maryna to prevent her from falling over. 

“YES!” Sherlock glared at her icily. He was angry. He was angry at Maryna for existing, he was angry that he could not read John, he was angry that he was uncertain about his own feelings, he was angry that John had slipped past the walls he had so carefully constructed all those years ago, and he was angry that he could not just tell John everything he was feeling. 

Because he wanted to. Because John would know what to do. Because John was better with feelings then Sherlock. Because he trusted John with everything he had, so why not this?

Even if John did not reciprocate the sentiment, he would be kind about it. Sherlock shook his head, he had to be sure that John did before he said anything. John may be kind about it, but how could he continue living with Sherlock if he admitted it.

Sherlock vaguely heard John apologize to Maryna as he sat down on John’s other side.   
As it got later, all of the campers gathered around the fire again. After they made themselves dinner, Patrick suggested that they tell scary stories. They went around the circle, and for the most part people shared the generic, not-so-scary scary stories. 

Then it was Sherlock’s turn. He requested to be skipped, but John told him to just spit out a story that was non-offensive and ended in woe and despair. 

“Fine. One day, Donavan and Anderson were given the lead on a homicide investigation.” 

John chuckled despite the fact that what Sherlock had said was, in fact, offensive. Donavan looked insulted, Anderson looked confused, and the rest of the group sat expectantly, only to receive more silence from the Consulting Detective. 

................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Not to long after sunset, John retreated into the tent. Sherlock had been acting strange during the trip, strange for him anyways. John had though that it might be just because the other man did not want to be camping, but it seemed like more then that. He was not just pouting; he seemed upset or conflicted about something. 

John finished pulling on his pajamas as Sherlock entered the tent. The taller man paused for a moment, looking over John in a way that John would usually describe as analytical, but his eyes seemed to just be seeing and not observing. He moved over to his own pile of cloths and began dressing. John fidgeted nervously with his cloths and the bag.

Part of him wanted Sherlock to question John’s song choice from earlier, for Sherlock to have read between the lines and to tell John that he was not crazy all those times that he had thought perhaps, just maybe, Sherlock returned some feelings. The other part of him desperately wanted Sherlock to remain oblivious. Not only because he wanted to avoid the nearly inevitable rejection, but also because accepting a sexual revelation privately is very different from acting on it. Acting on it is terrifying, even for a man who had seen war. 

The Doctor sighed lightly as Sherlock slipped into his sleeping bag and copied the motion. He turned on his side to face Sherlock, watching the other man attempt to fit his long limbs comfortably inside the sleeping bag. After a flopping back and forth several times, Sherlock curled his knees to his chest inside the bag with one arm bent under his head as a makeshift pillow and the other inside the bag. The whole arrangement looked incredibly uncomfortable to John, but Sherlock seemed happy enough with the set up. Sherlock stared at John, making it impossible for the Doctor to sleep.

“John?”

“Yes Sherlock?” Sherlock was silent for a moment, as if trying to decide if he actually wanted to ask the question. Eventually, Sherlock spoke again.

“Lord Hamish is going to be rather upset when we arrive home. If I were Lord Hamish, I would ignore us for days.”

John laughed. Hard. 

“Sher- Sherlock,” he wheezed, “I’m sure that Lord Hamish will forgive us. At least you, the little fuzz ball adores you.” It took John a while to calm down, but once he did Sherlock spoke again.

“John?”

“Yes Sherlock?”

“I never want to go camping again.”

John frowned slightly and nodded, “I doubt there will be many other chances like this anyways.”

About an hour after John had drifted into sleep, Sherlock was still unable to settle his mind. He rolled over in his bag until he was lying right next to John, their bags almost touching. He fell asleep while analyzing John’s breathing pattern and sleep cycle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, seriously, I feel like an ass. It's been too long. I started taking a couple of summer classes and they have been devouring all of my time. I am up to my neck in essays and tests.
> 
> I felt so bad about not updating this, I sat down and decided to get it out, it's past 2 am now. It was hard to write guys, even though I haven't had time/energy to write this, I have been thinking about it. I have plans, but I wasn't sure how to get from where we left off to where I want t go next. This is mostly a bridge chapter.
> 
> The song is "Roll Away Your Stone" by Mumford & Sons. I know that it may seem as though I'm beating a dead horse with this song thing, but I don't put it in lightly. I put a lot of thought into what songs I use, and what part I show. I have many justifications, even for why I bother, so if you want to hear those go ahead and pm me.
> 
> Please comment! They are better then salmonberry and rhubarb pie, and that stuff is basically the nectar of the gods.
> 
> Seriously though, they give me confidence in my writing. They fuel my inspiration as well as my guilt when I neglect this for too long (I mean, who needs to do school work).


	8. Kindred Spirit

John woke slowly, there being entirely too much light. He squeezed his eyes tighter and tried to turn away from the source of light, and when that failed to darken his world John yielded to consciousness. He shifted to stretch and realized that there was a warm weight across his chest. John's eyes snapped open and looked down his body, where there was a long, pale arm draped across his midsection. He looked over to the man lying next to him and wondered if Sherlock had moved over in his sleep, or before.

Sherlock looked so young in his sleep. His curly black hair was sticking out at odd angles and his lips were parted ever so slightly, John could feel Sherlock's soft warm breath against his cheek. John got an overwhelming desire to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair. He wondered if it would be as soft and silky as it looks, if his fingers would get caught in knots or if they would slide right through unobstructed. Perhaps he could steal this moment. John slowly lifted his hand and gently brushed a couple of fingers across Sherlock's hair. It was even softer then it looked. Sherlock did not stir and John got bolder, running his whole hand through the curly black mess. His hand slid through easily, meeting no knots. Sherlock smiled faintly but did not move. It was a sight that John suddenly desired to wake up to every morning. 

John dropped his hand back to his chest and let out a low breath that he had not realize he had been holding. A shadow crossed the tent, then the tent shook as if someone was pushing against it, "Wake up sleeping beauties, breakfast is almost ready!" The shadow left and Sherlock groaned, moving away from John and pulling his sleeping bag over to cover his face. John frowned and suddenly felt cold with the loss of contact, but quickly shook it off and started getting up. Sherlock just rolled over in his bag. John gently nudged Sherlock with his foot, and received nothing but another groan and a pale arm halfheartedly waved in his direction. John bent down and yanked the sleeping bag away from Sherlock's face, "Time to join the land of the living, Sherlock." Sherlock stuck out his tongue and tried to pull the sleeping bag back from John, but John held on firmly, "You know, for someone who thinks that sleep is boring, it's awfully hard to get you to wake up." With that John yanked down on the cloth in his hand, causing the zipper to give and unzip. Sherlock glared at John as he kicked the bag the rest of the way open, to which John responded by simply smiling victoriously and stepping out to see if he could help with breakfast.

By the time Sherlock joined the rest of the group, breakfast had been finished with a plate set off to the side for him, and John had swapped numbers with Maryna, Patrick, and Rick. Sherlock ignored the offered food, "Really John, why would you want to talk to these people again?"

"Because unlike you Sherlock, I enjoy talking to people and I happen to like them. I can have more then one friend you know."

"You're friends with Lestrade, you insist on going out to the pub with him." John raises and eyebrow and gives half a frown, "I'm allowed to have friends other then you and Greg, Sherlock. Eat your breakfast."

Sherlock looked at the plate of fish and his stomach rolled, he frowned and shook his head, "I'm not hungry." John sighed but decided not to push it. Sherlock was much more willing to take down the tent, anything to get them back to the city faster. The hike back to the car was filled with boring chatter and promises of gatherings that Sherlock ignored, and soon him and John were finally in the car heading back to 221B Baker Street. Sherlock pulled his knees up to his chest and dipped his head between his knees, wrapping his arms around and silently staying like that for the whole ride back to 221B. When they arrived at the flat, Sherlock and John quickly dumped their bags on the couch and went down to Mrs. Hudson's.

"Boys! Did you have fun in your trip?"

"No." Sherlock sat on the floor next to the jumper that Lord Hamish was curled up on. He tried to pet the cat but Lord Hamish snapped at Sherlock’s hand and swiped his claws, then rearranged himself so that he was no longer looking at Sherlock. Sherlock glared at the kitten and Mrs. Hudson tutted, "Oh Sherlock he's just upset that you guys left, Hamish will be over it soon."

"Lord Hamish." John shook his head and smiled as Sherlock attempted to gather Lord Hamish and the jumper, but the cat jumped down and sprinted up the stairs, ears laid back in irritation. Sherlock frowned after him, but was ushered into the kitchen by Mrs. Hudson.

About an hour later John and Sherlock made their way upstairs. During that time, Lord Hamish had managed to shred the seat of John's chair and was lying smugly on top of the back.

"Dammit! I knew we'd end up with a shredded chair if we pissed off the cat." Instead of making a snarky reply, Sherlock's stomach flipped and he ran to the bathroom. Instantaneously John shifted into doctor mode and followed Sherlock to the bathroom, where he found Sherlock curled around the toilet dry heaving into it. He moved up next to him and automatically placed a hand on Sherlock's forehead, he was burning up.

"Sherlock you are seriously hot, when did you start feeling ill?"

Sherlock rested his cheek on the cool porcelain and ran a large hand over his face, "I'm fine John."

"Right, that's why you're hugging the toilet and burning up, cause you're fine."

John wanted to run a comforting hand through those soft curls, but instead he helped Sherlock up and led him to the couch. He went into the kitchen and gathered a glass of ice water and the thermometer. When John returned to the main room Sherlock was laying on his side with his knees pulled up to his chest again, and Lord Hamish was nestled against his chest. John could not help but wonder if Lord Hamish could just tell that Sherlock was ill, or if he just liked Sherlock better in general. The cat did only tear up his chair and not Sherlock’s.  John discarded those silly thoughts, it would not be good for him to start being jealous of a cat, even if it did get more affection from Sherlock then anyone as far as John could tell. He shook his head slightly as if to dispel the thoughts and forced Sherlock to cooperate with the thermometer. A moment later he took it back from the grumbling detective, "Your temperature is elevated, are you still feeling nauseous?"

"I told you, I'm fine." Sherlock scratched Lord Hamish's back briefly then pushed him over so he could get up, starting to pull on his coat again.

"Sherlock where do you think you're going?"

"To Bart's, Molly has some parts for me. I'm fine John, I don't need a keeper." Sherlock stormed out the door and John rolled his eyes at the man. After unpacking the bags, John decided to check on his blog. As he was looking through and responding to comments, Lord Hamish decided it would be a good idea to walk across his keyboard then lay down on it. In the process the cat managed to post a blog filled with nonsense. John sat back in his chair and glared at the cat, who stared steadily right back at him. He rolled his head on his shoulders then picked Lord Hamish up and set him on the ground. The second his paws touched the floor the cat dashed across the room and slid under the couch. John shook his head and took down the post. Stupid cat. John brought the thing home, and let it commandeer his jumper to use as a bed, yet the cat liked Sherlock better. The two were practically kindred spirits, curling up on the couch and sleeping together all the time.

He was jealous of a fucking cat. John let out an irritated sigh, it was like his acceptance over the weekend opened a floodgate, and now he was jealous of a cat. Not just a cat, his cat. That was the most pathetic thing that he had ever heard. He sighed in irritation at himself and powered down his computer and grabbed his jacket. He needed some air.

Sherlock returned a few hours later, feeling worse for wear. The morgue had made him even more nauseous, a headache was developing, he was unreasonably fatigued, and although he had no doubt that it would made him feel much worse all he wanted was a cigarette. He placed the intestines that he had gathered from Molly in the refrigerator, dumped some food into Lord Hamish's bowl, and then collapsed onto his bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I went over it a couple times. But, I am so horrible at editing, so if I missed something feel free to point it out!
> 
> Thank you for sticking with this story through the long wait! You guys all rock :D


	9. Rose Tint My World Part One

Sherlock woke to an uncomfortable clenching sensation in his stomach. He tried to will it away, but soon he could feel the gastric acid burning at the base of his throat and ran for the bathroom. Sherlock did not understand how he possibly could have gotten sick; it must have been from one of the other campers, a carrier. Sherlock may work with some… Unsavory substances from time to time, but he always prided himself on his exceptionally high level of cleanliness. During the camping trip it had proven near impossible to maintain those same levels. He retched over the toilet, only spitting out a small amount of spit and fluid, still having nothing in his stomach to expel.

After the coughing ceased he sat back against the tile wall and rested his head against the cool glass of the shower door. The door to the bathroom creaked open slightly, and Sherlock could just barely make out Lord Hamish in the dark. The kitten arched its back and rubbed up against Sherlock’s side, then climbed gracefully into his lap. Sherlock brought his hand down and Lord Hamish nuzzled into it. He wondered briefly what the world looked like to Lord Hamish before dismissing the thought as silly. Sherlock picked up the cat and held him such that he could look him in the face, “How about we go experiment on some small intestines?”

Sherlock scooped the cat up and quietly walked to the kitchen, placing Lord Hamish on the table. He removed the section of intestines that he had prepped earlier and tried to cut a slice for a slide. It took him more then several tries to cut it to the proper size, just to break the slide. Sherlock growled in frustration and threw the container to the floor. Experimenting evidently was not going to distract him from the inconvenience of being sick, just make it worse. He sighed and retreated to his room, retrieving a box from the back that he had not used in years.

John woke groggily and looked over at the clock, 01:45. At first he thought that Sherlock was playing the violin, and thought it odd that he woke because he had grown accustomed to that noise, before he realized there were voices coming for downstairs. John groaned and rubbed his hand over his face, then decided to go downstairs and see what was going on and if Sherlock needed anything. He half stumbled into the main room and found Sherlock spiraled out on the couch with Lord Hamish partly tucked under his arm. He stood at the end of the couch and leaned over Sherlock, “How are you feeling?’

Sherlock scrunched up his face, “Don’t ask stupid questions, John.” John rolled his eyes and focused on the television, taking a moment to place the show, “’I Dream of Jeanie’? I never would have guessed you liked this show.” 

Sherlock looked up at John, taking in the undisguised curiosity, wonder, and something that he could not quite place. He would have said affection, but that could not be it.

“When I was young and got sick, Mycroft would stay up and watch this with me. Before school and work became more important, anyway.”

John was taken aback. Sherlock never talked about what his relationship with his brother had been, and John sometimes thought they must have always been like they are now. Sherlock turned back to the television, and John coughed awkwardly.

“I’m just, uh, going to make some tea. Do you want some?” 

“Pancakes.” 

John turned back towards Sherlock, placing a hand on the doorframe, shocked by the fact that Sherlock was actually asking for food, “Excuse me?”

Sherlock huffed and shifted on the couch slightly to fix John with his I-can’t-believe-your-making-me-repeat-myself glare, “I want pancakes.”

John shook his head slightly and turned into the kitchen, throwing over his shoulder, “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to say please every once in a while Sherlock.” He may have heard Sherlock grumble under his breath. John retreated into the kitchen and went to work preparing pancakes, because how could he deny the brilliant detective food? 

When the pancakes were done, he brought two plates out to the main room, setting them both on the coffee table, then went back to grab the tea. Sherlock sat up to put topping on his pancakes, and Lord Hamish jumped onto the coffee table next to the plates. Sherlock watched as the kitten circles John’s plate a couple of times, before biting into one of the pancakes and pulling it across the table. Lord Hamish managed to eat half the pancake before John returned and chased the cat off. Sherlock frowned and gathered Lord Hamish back into his lap.

“Stop it Sherlock. The cat shouldn’t be eating pancakes, I don’t care how cute it is.”

The episode had ended, and John curiously grabbed the box off the table. 

“Really? The Court Jester and Some Like It Hot?”

John moved the two movies to see what was underneath, and Sherlock knowing what was left, lunged and tried to yank the box away. He got the box, but not before John managed to grab the movie. John smiled widely, “Am I sensing a pattern here Sherlock? I suppose it makes sense that you like this movie.” 

“Do please shut up John. Just play another episode.”

“No way, I love this movie Sherlock. We’re watching this.” 

Sherlock stared at him wide-eyed as John danced up to the television, singing a line from the film as he did so, “I'm a wild and untamed thing; I'm a bee with a deadly sting; You get a hit and your mind goes ping; Your heart'll thump and your blood will sing; So let the party and the sounds rock on; We're gonna shake it till the life has gone; Rose tint my world; Keep me safe from my trouble and pain.”

When John sat back on the couch, he noticed that Sherlock had finished his plate, and had eaten over half of his. He smiled and pushed his plate towards Sherlock as he played The Rocky Horror Picture Show; he wasn’t really hungry, he just wanted to keep Sherlock company. Sherlock finished John’s pancakes rather quickly, and sat on the edge of the couch, before tentatively laying on his side with his head resting gently on John’s lap. John stilled for a moment, then began running his fingers gently through Sherlock’s hair causing Sherlock to visibly relax. At some point during the movie, both John and Sherlock fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Sigh* I don't know why you guys continue to put up with me, but I love all of you that do more then I can say.
> 
> This is part one of two. I promise that the next chapter things start moving much quicker, and you will all see what you have been waiting for. It will be magnificent.
> 
> I have three ideas for where to take this story, and I'm trying to decide which road to go down.
> 
> Side note, I am now on tumblr, so you should all follow me and you can bounce ideas around with me and when you see me lurking on tumblr you can shame me back to my word document. My url is snow-on-the-beach. tumblr. com


	10. Rose Tint My World Part Two

During the night John and Sherlock had managed to rearrange themselves on the couch so that John lay on his back and Sherlock lay with his hips on the side and his knees bent but his chest pressed flat against John’s, his head tucked under John’s chin and John’s arm across his back. 

Sherlock was the first to stir. He was warm and comfortable and did not want to move, even to open his eyes. He turned his head ever so slightly towards the source of warmth and breathed in the wonderful smell that was very, distinctly… John. Upon that realization Sherlock opened his eyes and confirmed that he was in fact sleeping on top of John, and something in his midsection clenched pleasantly. His first thought was that John looked stunningly handsome in the soft morning light, that he looked so warm and peaceful and beautiful and so very far out of reach. His second thought was that John must be uncomfortable; they may have been lying like that for hours. 

He shifted to move but John’s arms tightened slightly around his waist, causing Sherlock’s stomach to flutter and his breath to catch in his throat. John blinked a couple of times, to rid the sleep from his eyes, and tilted his head to look down at Sherlock. He licked his lips, now so close to Sherlock’s own, and for the first time in over twenty years Sherlock acted without thinking. He closed the space between them and kissed John.

John gasped slightly at the sudden onslaught, but before even Sherlock had time to process what was happening his hand was tangled in Sherlock hair, pulling Sherlock closer and kissing him deeply. John smiled into the kiss. He could not think of a better way to be woken up. Far too soon John broke away, ghosting his hands over Sherlock’s back before running them through his own hair as he tilted his head back and sighed, “Fuck, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock tensed and then shot up off the couch causing the furniture to shift to the side a good inch, earning a hiss from Lord Hamish who had been resting on the back. He panicked. He acted without thinking, and he crossed a line. A line he had been avoiding to save his friendship. He swiftly retreated to his room before John had a chance to speak. He knew what John would say. He knew that John would not judge him. That John would let him down gently and allow a friendship to remain, but it was not something he could listen to at that moment. Not right after such an amazing kiss, the best kiss that Sherlock had ever experienced. A kiss that he knew he would remember vividly until the day he died. 

John saw the panic and confusion on Sherlock’s face before he practically ran to his room, slamming the door behind him. John tried to follow Sherlock, but as soon as he stood he fell back onto the couch. He could not feel his feet or his lower legs, and his thighs felt like they were full of pins and needles. John stood up again slowly, and leaned heavily on the couch as he tried to walk off the numbness. Lord Hamish sat on the couch and watched John at first, but soon became bored and ran to Sherlock’s door, pawing at it and mewing.   
Finally, John managed to regain enough feeling in his legs to walk without support. Sherlock’s door opened slightly, just enough for a long pale arm to slip out and pull Lord Hamish into the room, and slammed shut again when John finally reached it. He grit his teeth in annoyance and knocked on the door, “Sherlock? Come out here so that we can talk about this like two mature adults.” 

John was met with silence. He was not sure what he was expecting but he should have known better then to refer to Sherlock as an adult. He looked at the time and let out a string of curses, “Sherlock, I don’t have time for this. I’m going to be late for work.” He tried the doorknob again, even though he knew it would still be locked, and then let out a huff as he turned to get ready for work. John was sure that it had been Sherlock who had kissed him and not the other way around, so why the panic? Was he having some sort of sexual identity crisis? Or had he still been half asleep, dreaming of someone else? Someone like that Irene Adler, and had become alarmed when waking to John kissing him back. Twenty minuets later John was ready for work and standing in front of Sherlock’s door again. 

“Sherlock, I’m leaving for work now. I get off at two today. You seem to be feeling better but text me if you need anything. Anything important Sherlock, not if you’re just too lazy to walk across the flat for something.” More silence. 

John shifted nervously and headed to the clinic. He tried to stay busy to prevent himself from thinking too much about that morning. He filled out paperwork, reassured mothers who were far too worked up over harmless things, avoided the overly flirty nurse, and chatted with Petal and some of the other coworkers he got along with. Despite this full workday, John constantly caught himself checking his phone for messages like a lovesick teenager waiting for the object of their desires to message. 

Sherlock never texted or contacted John in anyway, and John found himself worrying more and more about what had possibly caused that look on Sherlock’s face. He could not help but wonder if he was going to return to the flat just to find Sherlock packing his things away, if the kiss was unwanted it would not be an unreasonable thing for Sherlock to wish for John to move out. John could definitely see Sherlock just putting all his things out before trying to have an actual conversation about what had happened. He was beginning to form an apology speech when his phone vibrated. 

Even though John was alone, he stared at the paperwork on his desk without seeing it for close to five minutes before looking at his phone in an attempt to not seem desperate. He was slightly put out when he saw that the message was not from Sherlock, but from Maryna asking of he was free for lunch. John told her that he gets off in an hour and texted Sherlock.

I’m meeting Maryna after work. Do you need me to get you anything before then?

~

When John left for work Sherlock set Lord Hamish on his bed, where he proceeded to curl up on Sherlock’s pillow, and got dressed for the day. Sherlock did not know how to fix this mistake. He wondered how long he could avoid John before John simply broke down his door and dragged him out. Or, he flinched at the mere thought, what if John wanted to move out. Sherlock was still certain that John was not one to terminate a friendship over such a thing, but he may not want to share a flat with him anymore. He looked over his reflection once more, rolled his shoulders, fixed his cuffs, grabbed his phone and his scarf, and texted Lestrade as he hailed a cab to The Yard. 

Halfway to the station Lestrade texted Sherlock the address of a crime scene and he managed to arrive at the scene just as Lestrade and the other officers arrived. Sherlock solved the case with his usual vigor, throwing himself completely in the work and leaving no time to think about anything else. He insulted Anderson and Donavan, proved his theory of the cause of death at the morgue (and better yet, proved Anderson was wrong and an idiot), and eventually caught the criminal after a chase halfway across London. All in all, it was a decent case. Although he would not have classified it as more then a six, but anything was better then nothing. 

Sherlock was back at The Yard, where Lestrade had dragged him to fill out paperwork regarding the case, when he got John’s message. He snarled at the message, and replied:

I’m fine John. Down at the yard. Will be home late. SH

Everyone in the room startled at Sherlock’s outburst, but Lestrade yelled at everyone to “hurry up and finish so we can get on with our day” before Donavan had a chance to comment. He shot Sherlock a curious glance before going back to work. They spent another twenty minutes finishing up, but when everyone was putting away the finished paperwork, instead of seeing Sherlock out he asked for Sherlock to close to the door to his office and take a seat. Sherlock gave Lestrade a steely look before complying and sitting across from Lestrade’s desk. 

Lestrade sighed and rubbed his hand over his face, then settled them on his desk, “Okay, Sherlock, what is going on with you?”

“Nothing is ‘going on with me.’ I’ve solved your case for you, what else do you want?”

“Come on Sherlock, you’ve been with us all day and only pissed off Donavan and Anderson once, I’ve caught you looking worried three times today, which that alone would concern me, and just now in there you practically growled at your phone!”

Sherlock attempted to stare down Lestrade, but Lestrade just leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest, “We’re not going anywhere until you tell me what’s bothering you, I have all day. Believe it or not, John is not the only person that cares about you.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Fine. I think that John is going to move out.”

“What! Why?”

Sherlock crossed his legs and placed his hands on his knees, “Because I kissed him.” He spoke so quietly that Lestrade was not sure he heard properly. 

“Wait, isn’t that a good thing? I mean the tension between the two of you has been driving everyone crazy for months now.”

Sherlock snapped at Lestrade, “How could it be a good thing? John is clearly heterosexual.”

Lestrade surprised Sherlock by laughing. He leaned over his desk and put his face in his hands to regain composure, “Sherlock, John is clearly attracted to you, so he must not be as heterosexual as you think. Did he say he wanted to move out?”

“… No. He went to work.”

“Go talk to him, and try not to ruin what could very well be the best thing to happen to you.”

Sherlock stared at Lestrade blankly for a moment, then stood up and swooped out of his office without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Better late then never? I am never telling people that I'm going to try to "upload in a few days" I totally ended up psyching myself out after that and taking longer then I should have!
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed it. Their first kiss! That's what you all were waiting for right? Not them communicating and getting together and riding off into the sunset right? Cuz that'd be silly :P
> 
> Sorry. Read. Enjoy. Comment. Hopefully I will be with you again soon.
> 
> Much thanks to those who keep on coming back. Keep on being awesome!


	11. Cafe

When two o’clock finally came John finished putting away his files and unsuccessfully attempted to slip out unnoticed by the flirty nurse (John was pretty sure her name was Maria) and was a good twenty minutes late meeting Maryna. When he arrived he found her sitting in the corner next to a window over looking the street, biting her lip and worrying away at the edge of her cup. She looked up and caught his eye, giving him a nervous wave as he took the seat across from her. She looked so uncomfortable that John suddenly found himself feeling nervous, “Are you okay?”

Maryna tilted her head slightly to the side, “Yeah. No, ah, I’m sorry.”

John was officially worried. Maryna had seemed like the definition of confident since the moment John met her. She had been blunt and inappropriately flirtatious and sure in all of her movements. The barista brought John his tea and he thanked her before offering a friendly smile to Maryna.

“Don’t be sorry, what did you want to talk about?” 

Maryna smiled slightly and brushed some loose hair out of her face, “I just; I have no one else to talk to. I told you that I’ve been dating Casey for about three years now right?”

John nodded as she continued.

“I don’t understand how I didn’t see it, looking back it’s so obvious. I feel like over the years Casey has slowly been editing people out of my life. All my friends are his friends. Now that things are possibly going to shit, I have no one to talk to.”

John placed his hands over Maryna’s to still them, “Hey, I’m your friend and I’ve never met Casey. So why don’t you tell me what’s happened that’s got you so worked up?”

“I’m pregnant.”

“And that’s not good?”

She smiled sadly and shook her head gently, “I took the test a couple weeks ago, and since then I’ve been trying to feel Casey out. He very adamantly does not want kids. This morning I had a doctor’s appointment and they confirmed that I am six weeks pregnant and that everything looks good with the baby.” 

Maryna took her hands away and crossed them over her stomach, “John, I heard the baby’s heartbeat and I fell in love. I don’t know how to talk to Casey about it… I feel like he’s going to leave.”

John frowned and leaned back against his seat, rolling his warm cup between his hands, “I don’t know Casey, but you need to tell him soon.”

“What if he wants to leave?”

Honestly John thought that Maryna would probably be better off without Casey, everything that John had heard about him made the man sound like a right bastard. 

“Well, that’s something you need to decide. What do you want?”

Maryna looked down at her hands and bit her lip, “I love him, but I love this baby more.” She spoke so quietly that John barely heard her. She waved her hand as if to push the bad thoughts away and looked up at John, “Enough about me. How are things going with you and that overly handsome detective?”

John furrowed his brow, how were things with him and Sherlock? She tapped the table expectantly as she took a sip of coffee, “Well?”

He sighed and looked down at his tea while relaying the events of last night and that morning to Maryna. She smiled and banged her hands on the table, “But that’s so cute! And you kissed! That’s great!”

“It would be great if he didn’t panic immediately afterward and lock himself in his room.” 

“Oh”

“Yeah. He was probably still sleeping, dreaming about someone else. Then panicked when he woke…” he let the sentence trail off and Maryna cocked her head to the side and pointed at him, “Or, just hear me out, he was dreaming about you and panicked when he woke up to it being real. I mean, if I was dreaming about someone and woke up to kissing him I would, well, I would devour them. But I definitely would be mortified for a hot second.”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, speak of the devil. You can ask him yourself.”

John turned to look behind him, and Sherlock was indeed walking into the café. He groaned and rubbed his hands over his face, and Maryna smiled brightly up at Sherlock, “Hi there!”

Sherlock ignored Maryna and looked at John, “John.”

 

Maryna looked between the two of them, then started putting on her coat, “Well, I’m sure the two of you have much to talk about. I need to get going anyways, I have work this evening.”

John nodded at her, “Hey, tell me how the talk goes. And if you need anything, anything at all call me okay?” 

She stood and Sherlock slipped into her seat. She touched Johns shoulder lightly, “Thanks John, I really appreciate this.” Then she turned towards Sherlock, “Bye Sherlock.”

Sherlock did not acknowledge her in any way and continued to mess with his phone. Maryna frowned then leaned down next to Sherlock and let her voice slip into a sultry purr, “Mm, Sherlock, aren’t you just sex on a stick. I bet you’d look real attractive all-“

Sherlock jerked back and looked at her with what to anyone else would look like complete boredom, but John could see the downright terror there. John thought about saying something, but Maryna broke out into a huge grin and said, “Oh good, so you can hear me.” Sherlock gave her the harshest glare that John had ever witnessed. Maryna raised an eyebrow, and then Sherlock icily said, “Goodbye Maryna.”

John had not thought it was possible, but Maryna smiled even bigger and turned to John with false awe, “Oh! He even knows my name!” Then left after shooting a wink at Sherlock. John tried to cover his laugh with a cough, but Sherlock heard and glared at him.

~

Casey was walking back to his and Maryna’s flat, grocery bags in tow, when he saw something that made his stomach drop. Maryna was sitting in a café with some bloke, holing hands over the table. She had been acting strangely, nervous and evasive. Yes, Casey had known that something was going on, but he had never imagined Maryna as one to have an affair. The guy looked familiar so he took another couple of steps to get a better look. It was the guy who had that ridiculous blog that Maryna started reading the other day, Watson or something. Casey grit his teeth and continued to his flat. He decided to find out who this Watson was and make sure he knew whom he was dealing with.

~

John waited a whole minute, watching Sherlock fiddle with his phone, before clearing his throat, “Sherlock, what are you doing here?”

“Hm? Oh, I was just conversing with Lestrade and it seems that there are things we must discuss.”

John waited for Sherlock to continue, and when yet again Sherlock said nothing he closed his hands around his tea and took a deep breath, “Look, Sherlock, if you want me to move out…” He waved a hand, searching for the right words. 

Sherlock looked up from his phone, slightly wide eyed, “Don’t be stupid John, why would I want you to move out? Of course, if you want to move out I will respect that.” 

John paused, slightly startled by Sherlock declaring that he would actually respect a decision of John’s that he did not agree with, before answering, “No, no reason for me to move out.”

“Okay. Good.”

“Yes, okay.”

Sherlock smiled at a message he received then tapped the table and slipped his phone into his pocket, “Come on John, were needed at the University. We have a case.”

John threw back the last of his tea and followed Sherlock out of the Café and into the cab. The familiarity of being on a case, knowing that that would be the only thing holding Sherlock’s attention for the time being, settled the worry and tension clawing at John’s mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, well then... Yeah, I did that.


	12. Casey is a Fucking Dick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, either AO3 deleted chapter 12 or I'm losing my freaking mind. 
> 
> I'm 98% sure that this had definitely been posted... But with the way my life has been the past couple of months it really wouldn't surprise me if I had imagined posting this chapter.
> 
> Chapter 13 is almost finished, and datenshi-no-hime has been really getting on me about getting it finished.

Maryna woke the next morning to find her bed empty. She had come home late the previous night, there had been a rash of robberies and a mountain of paperwork to accompany said crimes, and she could not remember if Casey had even been in bed when she climbed in. Maryna frowned, and, stretching her hands above her head, arched her back and wondered where her boyfriend was. She often woke to warm hands covering her stomach or occasionally kisses down her neck and shoulder, but never to an empty bed. She sighed, and pulling a dressing gown over her tank top, made her way to the kitchen, where she found Casey sitting at the table, staring down a mug of tea.

 

            Maryna walked up next to him, and placing a hand on his shoulder asked, “Honey, are you okay?”

 

            He startled at her touch, then shrugged away from her hand and spoke without looking at her, “I think that we need to talk.”

 

            Taking a deep breath, Maryna joined Casey at the table and replied, “Yes, we do.”

 

            “How long?”

 

            Maryna cocked her head and frowned slightly, it seemed to her like an odd way to phrase the question, and so she answered hesitantly, “Six weeks.”

 

            Casey stood abruptly, causing his chair to tilt back dangerously, and angrily threw his glass against the wall, “You’ve been sleeping with that bastard for six weeks?!”

 

            She flinched as the cup shattered against the wall, then stood to pull a broom out of the small closet next to the fridge before he started yelling about the mess as well, “No, Casey, I’m pregnant.”

 

            Maryna tried to step around him, but he grabbed her by her upper arm and pushed her backwards until her hips hit the counter and whispered dangerously, “Did that FUCKER get you pregnant?”

 

            “Ow, Casey you’re hurting me! Let go!” When he did not move, Maryna shoved him back with her free arm, “Casey, I never cheated on you, I’m pregnant with _your_ child.”

 

            “I don’t believe you! I saw you with him yesterday! What, did you go and get pregnant on purpose just so I wouldn’t leave? Did you just stop taking your fucking pills?”

 

            “What has gotten into you? I didn’t cheat! John is just a friend! Believe it or not, I AM actually allowed to have friends!”

 

            Casey laughed.

 

 “The only reason a guy would be friends with you was if he was getting some.”

 

           

“Despite what you seem to think, some people do actually like _me_!” Casey scoffed, so Maryna threw her hands up in a dismissive gesture and stormed back to the bedroom. She then pulled a bag from the closet, and started throwing cloths into it. Casey followed her, and started pulling her cloths back out of the bag. “What do you think you’re doing?” He asked.

 

She snatched her shirt back from Casey and headed to the bathroom, “I’m leaving. I just need some space. God, I don’t know if I can do this any more Casey.” Maryna tossed a few toiletries into the bag, and then zipped it up, only to have it torn from her hands. “No, you’re not leaving. We can work this out.”

 

“Casey, I _am_ leaving. I cannot have this conversation right now. Give me my bag, and let me go.” Maryna stepped forward, reaching for her bag, but Casey pulled it out of her reach and shoved her into the wall, his arm pressing across her chest. Before he could say anything, however, Maryna kneed him as hard as she could, and while he bent over in pain she pulled her bag out of his grasp and ran for the door.

 

* * *

            

            Sherlock was lying in bed wile Lord Hamish slept curled up on his shoulder when he heard John get up and start moving around. Sherlock heard the shower groan to life, and found his thoughts wondering to what John might look like in the shower, completely covered in water droplets. He groaned, and pushed himself out of bed. “This was getting ridiculous” he thought, “I need to do something about these fantasies”. The case from the night before had lasted late into the night, and ended with a chase across town as well as a fight between Sherlock, John, and the Librarian. It had taken all of Sherlock’s will power not to push John against the nearest wall and snog him senseless immediately following the fight. He dressed quickly, and then slipped out of the flat just as John shut off the water.

 

            He decided to grab a cab and head to the Yard; he still had to go over everything that had happened with Lestrade. Sherlock pulled out his phone and thought about texting John, but then he would want to know why Sherlock had bothered to leave without him in the first place. He slipped the phone back in his pocket, and glared out the window until a music store caught his eye. On an impulse, he called out for the cabbie to stop and let him out. Sherlock spent an hour looking through the store before he finally settled on a guitar that he thought John would like.

 

Sherlock knew that John was not going to buy himself a guitar, if he was going to, he would have done so by now. Sherlock wanted John to have a guitar because he wanted to listen to John play and sing, and maybe even play together. “Surely John would mention it at some point” he thought. Also, Sherlock thought about how utterly happy John had looked while playing on the camping trip. It was a look that Sherlock desperately wanted to see more of. The guitar Sherlock chose was a Grand Auditorium with a tobacco sunburst stain on the face, as well as a hard-shell case with black plush lining. It was a beautiful guitar. It was not as expensive as some of the others that Sherlock had looked at, but he knew that John would prefer something that cost less than his entire wardrobe. On the counter, there was a bowl of guitar picks, and Sherlock noticed a dark blue one that had lighter swirls throughout it, giving it a ripple effect. Deciding to buy that as well, Sherlock paid for everything and stuck the pick inside of the case.

 

Sherlock hailed a cab and checked his phone. John had texted Sherlock while he was out, but Sherlock ignored the message and stared out the window until the cab reached Baker Street. Sherlock paid the cabbie then decided to have a smoke on the front steps of 221 and set the guitar at his feet to light a cigarette.

 

“Sherlock!” Sherlock looked up to see John leaning out of the window, “Put out that cigarette.” Sherlock brought the burning roll of tobacco up to his lips, and took a long drag while still maintaining eye contact with John, who promptly rolled his eyes and slammed the window shut. He looked at the cigarette for a moment before sighing and snuffing it, then gathering the guitar and heading up to the flat.

 

John was making tea in the kitchen, so Sherlock set the case on the coffee table, put his coat up, then flopped onto the sofa, promptly being joined by Lord Hamish. John asked if Sherlock wanted tea from the kitchen but he was ignored. John did not ask again, the silence was not unusual.  He soon entered the main room carrying two cups of tea, but stopped when he saw the guitar case on the table.

 

“Sherlock, what is that?”

 

“A guitar. Obviously.”

 

“Right. Why? Is it for a case that you haven’t told me about yet or something?”

 

“No, it’s for you.”

 

“Oh. Right. Um, why?” Sherlock watched John from the corner of his eye, then swung his legs off the couch to shift into a sitting position, “I bought it because you are very good. You’re a much better guitarist than you are a writer.”

 

John set the two cups down and opened the case. Sherlock watched as John admired the guitar, and carefully lifted it out of the case. He sat on the couch, next to Sherlock, and gave him a half smile that made Sherlock’s heart rate spike. John ran his hands over the smooth wood, then the strings. He picked at the strings, checking the tuning and muttered, “It’s beautiful”. Sherlock cleared his throat, asking, “Why don’t you play something? There’s a pick, if you want.”

           

            He fished the pick out of the case and handed it to John, who accepted it with a grin. John plucked a couple strings before settling on a song.

 

_We’ll do it all, everything, on our own._

_We don’t need, anything, or anyone._

_If I lay here, if I just lay here,_

_Would you lie with me and just forget the world?_

_I don’t quite know, how to say, how I feel._

_Those three words are said too much, they’re not enough._

_If I lay here, if I just lay here,_

_Would you lie with me and just forget the world?_

            John made eye contact with Sherlock; he had dropped the grin and instead wore a vulnerable, searching look. It made Sherlock’s breath catch in his throat.

 

_Forget what we’re told, before we get too old,_

_Show me a garden that’s bursting into life._

_Let’s waste time, chasing cars, around our heads._

_I need your grace, to remind me, to find my own_

_If I lay here, if I just lay here,_

_Would you lie with me and just forget the world._

            Apparently John had seen something that he liked, because the half smile that Sherlock enjoyed so much was back. Somehow John managed to look both shy and arrogant at the same time. Sherlock did not remember moving closer to John, but when Sherlock took account of the situation, he found that he had moved so close to John that he could feel his body heat.  

 

_Forget what we’re told, before we get too old,_

_Show me a garden that bursting into life._

_All that I am, all that I ever was,_

_Is here in your prefect eyes, they’re all I can see._

_I don’t know where, confused about how as well,_

_Just know that these things will never change for us at all._

_If I lay here, if I just lay here,_

_Would you lie with me and just forget the world?_

            John finished the song, and Sherlock leaned in, over the guitar, and kissed him. John kissed back eagerly, moving to touch Sherlock, but was blocked by the guitar in his lap, causing John to lapse into a fit of giggles. Sherlock pulled away, falling back into the couch, his expression somewhere between disappointed and pouting.  John shook his head, saying, “No, Sherlock” between laughs, and gestured to the guitar, before placing it back into its case. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and searching John’s face as he raised his hand to touch his mouth lightly. John tugged at Sherlock’s hand, leaning in to kiss him again. Sherlock slipped a hand into John’s hair, pulling his head back to kiss him deeper, straddling the smaller man.

 

            Lord Hamish chose that exact moment, however, to jump onto the back of the couch and swat at Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock blindly waved a hand in an attempt to chase the cat off, but Lord Hamish swiped at his hand and promptly attempted to climb onto Sherlock’s back. He sat up, pulling the cat off his shoulder, and glared murderously at him. He refused to yield even though Lord Hamish placed a paw on his nose and mewed pitifully. John’s phone started ringing, so he used one arm to nudge Sherlock back onto the couch, and the other to dig the phone out of his pocket. Sherlock flung himself over and curled into a ball staring at the back of the couch in a full-blown pout, with Lord Hamish being a typical cat and curling up on Sherlock’s side.

           

            John checked his caller ID, and quickly answered when he saw that it was Maryna, but, unfortunately, she was incoherent, “Maryna, just tell me where you are… Actually, just text me the address, I’ll be there soon.” She made a noise that John interpreted as an agreement, and then she hung up the phone.  John shook his head, standing up and reaching for his coat, “Sherlock, something’s happened. I have to go.” Sherlock remained silent, refusing to look at John.

 

            As John stepped outside, his phone chimed again. Maryna had sent him an address to a hotel no more then three blocks away. He decided to walk, figuring that since it was so close it would be easier, and headed in the direction of the hotel.

 

            Once at the hotel John found the room quickly, and sharply knocked on the door, “Maryna, it’s John.” There was a loud thud accompanying some cursing before the door was yanked open, revealing Maryna, red-eyed and still in her dressing gown.  John hugged her and walked her back to the bed, noting the bag lying haphazardly in the walkway, the contents scattered on the floor. They sat on the bed and John attempted to comfort her, rubbing her back in a soothing manner.

 

 “What happened?”

           

            “I got in a fight with Casey. I told him I was pregnant, and then he accused me of cheating and getting pregnant on purpose. He accused me of some pretty horrid things, so I left.”

 

            “Did he hurt you? Is that why you have a bruise on your arm?” John queried.

 

 Maryna nodded slightly and John felt a wave of red hot anger flood his system. He pulled Maryna close to him and, taking a minute to calm down before he spoke again, asked, “So what are you going to do?”

 

            “Well, I was planning on staying here until I could find an apartment, because I can’t go back there.”

 

            “Don’t waste your money on this place. Come stay with Sherlock and I while you look for a place, and in a few days, once you’ve calmed down a bit, I’ll go with you to get the rest of your stuff. Okay?”

 

            Maryna burst into tears again, and John let her cry herself out on his shoulder. When she had finally calmed down again John wiped her face dry and gently smiled at her. “Hey, things will be okay” he told her. He shrugged off his jacket and handed it to her, then began to retrieve her fallen belongings and placed them back into her bag. “You’ll freeze to death by the time we get back to the flat, come on.” He slung the bag over his shoulder and led Maryna out of the hotel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the chapter format looks weird, I'm sorry. It's probably because I don't know how to work AO3 at 3am.


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